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UNIVERSITY  OF 
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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
last  date  stamped  under  “Date  Due.”  If  not  on  hold  it  may  be 
renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE  nrT 

DUE  RET‘ 

DATE 

DUE  KL1* 

Form  No.  513 

Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


https://archive.org/details/queensquairorsixOOhewl 


BY  MAURICE  HEWLETT 


A  lovers’  tale 

BENDISH 

LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

THE  SONG  OF  RENNY 

BRAZENHEAD  THE  GREAT 

OPEN  COUNTRY 

HALFWAY  HOUSE 

REST  HARROW 

THE  FOOL  ERRANT 

THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

NEWT  CANTERBURY  TALES 

THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  RICHARD  YEA 
AND  NAY 

THE  FOREST  LOVERS 

LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY 

THE  ROAD  IN  TUSCANY.  TWO  VOLUMES 

LETTERS  TO  SANCHIA 

THE  AGONISTS 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


THE  SIX  YEARS’  TRAGEDY 


THE 


QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

OR  Ms 

,ggb 

The  Six  Years’  Tragedy 


BY 

MAURICE  HEWLETT 


*  Improbus  ille  puer,  crudelis  tu  quoque  Mater  1 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  :  :  :  :  1926 


Copyright,  1903,  by 

MAURICE  HEWLETT 

COPYRIGHT,  1903,  1904,  BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


BY 

HIS  PERMISSION 
AND  WITH  GOOD  REASON 
THIS  TRAGIC  ESSAY 
IS  INSCRIBED 
TO 


ANDREW  LANG 


CONTENTS 


FACE 

Author’s  Prologue . . 

BOOK  THE  FIRST 

MAIDS’  ADVENTURE 

CHAP. 

1.  Here  you  are  in  the  Antechamber  ....  7 

2.  Here  you  step  into  the  Fog  .....  25 

3.  Superficial  Properties  of  the  Honeypot  .  .  .36 

4.  Rough  Music  Here  ......  47 

5.  Here  are  Flies  at  the  Honeypot  .  .  .  .67 

6.  The  Fool’s  Whip  .......  77 

7.  Gordon’s  Bane  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  91 

8.  The  Divorce  of  Mary  Livingstone  (  To  an  Italian  Air )  .  106 

9.  Air  of  St.  Andrew:  Adonis  and  the  Scapegoat  .  .121 

10.  They  Look  and  Like  ......  135 

11.  Prothalamium  :  Venus  wins  Fair  Adonis  .  .  .  146 

12.  Epithalamium  :  End  of  all  Maids’  Adventure  .  .169 

BOOK  THE  SECOND 

MEN’S  BUSINESS 

1.  Opinions  of  French  Paris  upon  some  Late  Events  .  .  191 

2.  Griefs  and  Consolations  of  Adonis  .  .  .  .201 


Vll 


viii  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

CHAP.  PAGE 

3.  Divers  Uses  of  a  Hardy  Man  .....  214 

4.  Many  Dogs  ........  229 

5.  Midnight  Experiences  of  Jean-Marie-Baptiste  Des-Essars  .  236 

6.  Venus  in  the  Toils  ......  250 

7.  Aftertaste  ........  270 

8.  King’s  Evil  .......  287 

9.  The  Washing  of  Hands  ......  306 

10.  Extracts  from  the  Diurnall  of  the  Master  of  Sempill  .  318 

11.  Armida  Doubtful  in  the  Garden  ....  328 

12.  Scotchmen’s  Business  ......  340 


BOOK  THE  THIRD 

MARKET  OF  WOMEN 


I. 

Stormy  Opening  . 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

351 

2. 

The  Brainsick  Sonata 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

363 

3- 

Descant  upon  a  Theme  as  Old  as  Jason 

© 

• 

• 

381 

4- 

She  Looks  Back  Once 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

394 

5- 

Medea  in  the  Bedchamber 

• 

• 

• 

• 

404 

6. 

Kirk  o’  Field 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

414 

7- 

The  Red  Bridegroom 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

430 

8. 

The  Bride’s  Prelude 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

45i 

9- 

The  Bride’s  Tragedy 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

474 

10. 

The  Knocking  at  Borthwick  . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

484 

11. 

Appassionata 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

490 

12. 

Addolorata  • 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

502 

•  ••••••• 


Epilogue 


506 


AUTHOR’S  PROLOGUE 


If  one  were  in  the  vein  for  the  colours  and  haunted  mists  of 
Romance ;  if  the  thing ,  perhaps ,  were  not  so  serious ,  there 
might  be  composed,  and  by  me ,  a  Romance  of  Queens  out  of 
my  acquaintance  with  four  ladies  of  that  degree ;  among 
whom  —  to  adopt  the  terms  proper —  were  the  Queen  of  Gall , 
the  Queen  of  Ferment ,  and  the  Queen  of  Wine  and  Honey. 
You  see  that  one  would  employ ,  for  the  occasion,  the  language 
of  poets  to  designate  the  Queen-Mother  of  France,  the  Queen- 
Maid  of  England \  and  the  too  fair  Queen  of  Scots  :  to  omit 
the  fourth  queen  from  such  a  tale  would  be  for  superstition  s 
sake,  and  not  for  lack  of  matter — I  mean  Queen  Venus,  who 
(  God  be  witness)  played  her  part  in  the  affairs  of  her  mortal 
sisters,  and  proclaimed  her  prerogatives  by  curtailing  theirs. 
But  either  the  matter  is  too  serious,  or  I  am.  I  see  flesh  and 
spirit  involved  in  all  this,  truth  and  lies,  God  arid  the  Devil 
— dreadful  concernments  of  our  own ,  with  which  Romance 
has  no  profitable  traffic.  La  Bele  Isoud,  the  divine  Oriana, 
Aude  the  Fair  (whom  Rola7id  loved)— tender  ghosts,  one  and 
all  of  them,  whose  heartaches  were  so  7nelodious  that  they 
have  filled  four-a7id-twe7ity  pleasant  volumes ,  and  yet  so 
7i7isubstantial  that  710  07ie  feels  07ie  pe7i7iy  the  worse,  or  the 
better,  for  them  afterwards .  But  here  !  Ah,  here  we  have 
real  players  in  a  game  tre77ie7idously  real ;  a7id  the  hearts 
they  seem  to  play  with  were  once  bright  with  lively  blood ; 
and  the  lies  they  told  should  have  made  streaks  on  lips  once 
vividly  incarnate — and  sometunes  did  it.  Real !  Why,  not 
long  ago  you  could  have  seen  a  little  pair  of  black  satin 
slippers,  sadly  down  at  heel,  which  may  have  paced  with 
Riccio  s  in  the  gallery  at  Wemyss,  or  tapped  the  floor  of 


2 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


Holyroodkouse  while  King  Henry  Darnley  was  blustering 
there ,  trying  to  show  his  manhood .  A  book  about  Queen 
Mary —if  it  be  honest — has  no  business  to  be  a  genteel  exer¬ 
cise  in  the  romantic  :  if  the  truth  is  to  be  told,  let  it  be  there. 

A  quair  is  a  cahier,  a  quire ,  a  little  book.  In  one  such  a 
certain  king  wrote  fairly  the  tale  of  his  love-business  ;  and 
here ,  in  this  other ,  I pretend  to  show  you  all  the  tragic  error, 
all  the  pain ,  known  only  to  her  that  moved  in  it,  of  that 
child  of  his  children' s  children,  Mary  of  Scotland.  What 
others  have  guessed  at,  building  surmise  upon  surmise, 
she  knew ;  for  what  they  did,  she  suffered.  Some  who 
were  closest  about  her — women,  boys — may  have  known 
some :  Claude  Nau  got  some  from  her ;  my  Master  Des- 
Essars  got  much.  But  the  whole  of  it  lay  in  her  heart,  and 
to  know  her  is  to  hold  the  key  of  that.  Suppose  her  hand 
had  been  at  this  pen  ;  suppose  mine  had  turned  that  key : 
there  might  have  resulted  ‘  The  Queen's  Quair.'  Well! 
Suppose  one  or  the  other  until  the  book  is  done — and  then 
judge  me. 

Questions  for  King  CE dipus,  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx, 
Mystery  of  Queen  Mary  !  She  herself  is  the  Mystery  ;  the 
rest  is  simple  enough.  There  had  been  men  in  Scotland  from 
old  time,  and  Stuarts  for  six  generations  to  break  themselves 
upon  them.  Great  in  thought ,  frail  in  deed,  adventurous, 
chivalrous ,  hardy,  short  of  hold,  doomed  to  fail  at  the  touch 
— so  ventured,  so  failed  the  Stuarts  from  the  first  Jaynes  to 
the  fifth.  There  had  been  men  in  Scotland,  but  no  women. 
Forth  from  the  Lady  of  Lorraine  came  the  lass,  born  in  an 
unhappy  hour,  tossing  high  her  young  head,  saying,  Met  me 
alone  to  rule  wild  Scotland .'  They  had  but  to  give  her  house- 
room  :  no  mystery  there.  The  mystery  is  that  any  mystery 
has  been  found.  Maids'  Adventure — with  that  we  begin. 
A  bevy  of  maids  to  rule  wild  Scotland!  What  mystery  is 
there  in  that  ?  Or — since  Mystery  is  double-edged,  engaging 
what  we  dare  not,  as  well  as  what  we  cannot ,  tell — what 
mystery  but  that  ? 

A  hundred  books  have  been  written,  a  hundred  songs 
sung ;  men  enough  of  these  latter  days  have  brokeyi  their 


AUTHOR’S  PROLOGUE 


3 


hearts  for  Queen  Mary  s.  What  is  more  to  the  matter  is 
that  no  heart  but  hers  was  broken  in  time.  All  the  world 
can  love  her  now ;  but  who  loved  her  the?i  ?  Not  a  man 
among  them.  A  few  girls  went  weeping ;  a  few  boys  laid 
down  their  necks  that  she  might  walk  free  of  the  mire. 
Alas !  the  mire  swallowed  them  up ,  and  she  must  soil  her 
pretty  feet.  This  is  the  nut  of  the  tragedy ;  pity  is  involved 
rather  than  terror.  But  no  song  ever  pierced  the  fold  of  her 
secret ,  no  book  ever  found  out  the  truth ,  because  none  ever 
sought  her  heart.  Here ,  then,  is  a  book  which  has  sought 
nothi?ig  else ,  and  a  song  which  springs  from  that  only: 
called ,  on  that  same  account ,  ‘  The  Queens  Quair.' 


. 


. 

• 

BOOK  THE  FIRST 

MAIDS’  ADVENTURE 


CHAPTER  I 


HERE  YOU  ARE  IN  THE  ANTECHAMBER 

It  is  quite  true  that  when  they  had  buried  the  little  wasted 
King  Francis,  and  while  the  days  of  Black  Dule  still  held, 
the  Cardinal  of  Lorraine  tried  three  times  to  see  his  niece, 
and  was  three  times  refused.  Not  being  man  enough  to 
break  a  way  in,  he  retired ;  but  as  he  knew  very  well  that 
the  Queen-Mother,  the  King,  the  King  of  Navarre,  and 
Madame  Marguerite  went  in  and  out  all  day  long,  he  had 
a  suspicion  that  they,  or  the  seasons,  wrere  more  at  fault 
than  the  hidden  mourner.  ‘  A  time,  times,  and  half  a 
time,’  he  said,  ‘  have  good  scriptural  warrant.  I  will  try 
once  more  —  at  this  hour  of  high  mass.’  So  he  did,  and 
saw  Mary  Livingstone,  that  strapping  girl,  who  came  into 
the  antechamber,  rather  flushed,  and  devoutly  kissed  his  ring. 

‘  How  is  it  with  the  Queen  my  niece  ?  ’ 

‘  Sadly,  Eminence.’ 

‘  I  must  know  how  sadly,  my  girl.  I  must  see  her.  It 
is  of  great  concern.’ 

The  young  woman  looked  scared.  ‘  Eminence,  she  sees 
only  the  Queen-Mother.’ 

‘The  more  reason,’  says  he,  ‘why  she  should  see  some¬ 
body  else.  She  may  be  praying  one  of  these  fine  days 
that  she  never  see  the  Queen-Mother  again.’ 

Livingstone  coloured  up  to  the  eyes.  ‘  Oh,  sir !  Oh, 
Lord  Cardinal,  and  so  she  doth,  and  so  do  we  all!  They 
are  dealing  wickedly  with  our  mistress.  It  is  true,  what 
I  told  you,  that  she  sees  the  Queen-Mother  :  that  is  because 
her  Majesty  will  not  be  denied.  She  forces  the  doors  —  she 

7 


8 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


hath  had  a  door  taken  down.  She  comes  and  goes  as  she 
will ;  rails  at  our  lady  before  us  all.  She,  poor  lamb,  what 
can  she  do  ?  Oh,  sir,  if  you  could  stop  this  traffic  I  would 
let  you  in  of  my  own  venture.’ 

‘Take  me  in,  then,’  said  the  cardinal :  ‘  I  will  stop  it.’ 

In  the  semi-dark  he  found  his  niece,  throned  upon  the 
knee  of  Mary  Beaton  for  comfort,  in  heavy  black  weeds, 
out  of  which  the  sharp  oval  of  her  face  and  the  crescent 
white  coif  gleamed  like  two  moons,  the  old  within  the 
new.  Two  other  maids  sat  on  the  floor  near  by  ;  each  had 
a  hand  of  her  —  pitiful  sentinels  of  spoiled  treasure.  When 
the  gentleman-usher  at  the  curtain  was  forestalled  by  the 
great  man’s  quick  entry,  four  girls  rose  at  once,  as  a  covey 
of  partridges  out  of  corn,  and  all  but  the  Queen  fell  upon 
their  knees.  She,  hugging  herself  as  if  suddenly  chilled, 
came  forward  a  little,  not  very  far,  and  held  out  to  the 
cardinal  an  unwilling  hand.  He  took  it,  laid  it  on  his 
own,  kissed,  and  let  it  drop  immediately.  Then  he  stood 
upright,  sniffed,  and  looked  about  him,  being  so  near  the 
blood  royal  himself  that  he  could  use  familiarity  with 
princes.  It  was  clear  that  he  disapproved. 

‘Faith  of  a  gentleman!’  he  said :  ‘one  might  see  a 
little  better,  one  might  breathe  a  little  better,  here,  my 
niece.’ 

‘  The  room  is  well  enough,’  said  the  Queen. 

It  was  dark  and  hot,  heavy  with  some  thick  scent. 

As  she  pronounced  upon  it  the  cardinal  paused  half-way 
to  the  shutter;  but  he  paused  too  slightly.  The  Queen 
flushed  all  over  and  went  quickly  between  him  and  the 
window  —  a  vehement  action.  ‘  Leave  it,  leave  it  alone ! 
I  choose  my  own  way.  You  dare  not  touch  it.’  She 
spoke  furiously ;  he  bowed  his  grey  head  and  drew  back. 
Then,  in  a  minute,  she  herself  flung  back  the  shutters,  and 
stood  trembling  in  the  sudden  glory  revealed.  The  broad 
flood  of  day  showed  him  the  waves  of  storm  still  surging 
over  her ;  but  even  as  he  approved  she  commanded  herself 
and  became  humble  —  he  knew  her  difficult  to  resist  in  that 
mood. 

‘  I  thought  you  would  treat  me  as  the  Queen-Mother 
does.  That  put  me  in  a  rage.  I  beg  your  pardon,  my 


CH.  I 


IN  THE  ANTECHAMBER 


9 


lord.’  As  she  held  out  her  hand  again,  this  time  he  took 
it,  and  drew  her  by  it  along  with  him  to  the  open  window. 
He  made  her  stand  in  the  sun.  Far  below  the  grey 
curtain-wall  were  the  moat,  the  bridges,  the  trim  gardens 
and  steep  red  roofs  of  Orleans,  the  spired  bulk  of  the  great 
church ;  beyond  all  that  the  gay  green  countryside.  A 
fresh  wind  was  blowing  out  there.  You  saw  the  willows 
bend,  the  river  cream  and  curd.  The  keen  strength  of 
day  and  the  weather  made  her  blink  ;  but  he  braced  her 
to  meet  it  by  his  words. 

‘  Madam,’  said  he,  ‘needs  must  your  heart  uplift  to  see 
God’s  good  world  still  shining  in  its  place,  patient  until 
your  Majesty  tires  of  sitting  in  the  dark.’ 

She  smiled  awry,  and  drummed  on  the  ledge  with  her 
long  fingers,  looking  wilfully  down,  not  choosing  to  agree. 
The  maids,  all  clustered  together,  watched  their  beloved  ; 
but  the  cardinal  had  saner  eyes  than  any  of  them.  As  he 
saw  her,  so  may  you  and  I. 

A  tall,  slim  girl,  petted  and  pettish,  pale  (yet  not 
unwholesome),  chestnut-haired,  she  looked  like  a  flower  of 
the  heat,  lax  and  delicate.  Her  skin  — but  more,  the  very 
flesh  of  her  —  seemed  transparent,  with  colour  that  warmed 
it  from  within,  faintly,  with  a  glow  of  fine  rose.  They 
said  that  when  she  drank  you  could  see  the  red  wine  run 
like  a  fire  down  her  throat ;  and  it  may  partly  be  believed. 
Others  have  reported  that  her  heart  could  be  discerned 
beating  within  her  body,  and  raying  out  a  ruddy  light, 
now  fierce,  now  languid,  through  every  crystal  member. 
The  cardinal,  who  was  no  rhapsodist  of  the  sort,  admitted 
her  clear  skin,  admitted  her  patent  royalty,  but  denied 
that  she  was  a  beautiful  girl  —  even  for  a  queen.  Her 
nose,  he  judged,  was  too  long,  her  lips  were  too  thin,  her 
eyes  too  narrow.  He  detested  her  trick  of  the  sidelong 
look.  Her  lower  lids  were  nearly  straight,  her  upper 
rather  heavy :  between  them  they  gave  her  a  sleepy 
appearance,  sometimes  a  sly  appearance,  when,  slowly 
lifting,  they  revealed  the  glimmering  hazel  of  the  eyes 
themselves.  Hazel,  I  say,  if  hazel  they  were,  which 
sometimes  seemed  to  be  yellow,  and  sometimes  showed 
all  black :  the  light  acted  upon  hers  as  upon  a  cat’s  eyes. 


IO  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  i 

Beautiful  she  may  not  have  been,  though  Monsieur  de 
Brantome  would  never  allow  it ;  but  fine,  fine  she  was  all 
over  —  sharply,  exquisitely  cut  and  modelled  :  her  sweet 
smooth  chin,  her  amorous  lips,  bright  red  where  all  else 
was  pale  as  a  tinged  rose ;  her  sensitive  nose ;  her  broad, 
high  brows  ;  her  neck  which  two  hands  could  hold,  her 
small  shoulders  and  bosom  of  a  child.  And  then  her 
hands,  her  waist  no  bigger  than  a  stalk,  her  little  feet ! 
She  had  sometimes  an  intent,  considering,  wise  look  —  the 
look  of  the  Queen  of  Desire,  who  knew  not  where  to  set 
the  bounds  of  her  need,  but  revealed  to  no  one  what  that 
was.  And  belying  that  look  askance  of  hers  —  sly,  or  wise, 
or  sleepy,  as  you  choose  —  her  voice  was  bold  and  very 
clear,  her  manners  were  those  of  a  lively,  graceful  boy,  her 
gestures  quick,  her  spirit  impatient  and  entirely  without 
fear.  Her  changes  of  mood  were  dangerous :  she  could 
wheedle  the  soul  out  of  a  saint,  and  then  fling  it  back  to 
him  as  worthless  because  it  had  been  so  easily  got.  She 
wrote  a  beautiful  bold  hand,  loved  learning,  and  petting, 
and  a  choice  phrase.  She  used  perfumes,  and  dipped  her 
body  every  day  in  a  bath  of  wine.  At  this  hour  she  was 
nineteen  years  old,  and  not  two  months  a  widow. 

All  this  the  cardinal  knew  by  heart,  and  had  no  need 
to  observe  while  she  stood  strumming  at  the  window-sill. 
His  opinion — if  he  had  chosen  to  give  it  —  would  have 
been :  these  qualities  and  perfections,  ah,  and  these 
imperfections,  are  all  very  proper  to  a  prince  who  has  a 
principality ;  for  my  niece,  I  count  greatly  upon  a  wise 
marriage  —  wise  for  our  family,  wise  for  herself.  He 
would  have  been  the  last  to  deny  that  the  Guises  had 
been  hampered  by  King  Francis’  decease.  All  was  to  do 
again  —  but  all  could  be  done.  This  fretful,  fair  girl  was 
still  Queen  of  Scotland,  allons!  Dowager  of  France,  but 
Queen  of  Scotland,  worth  a  knight’s  venture.  Advance 
pawns,  therefore !  He  was  a  chess-player,  passionate  for 
the  game. 

He  surveyed  the  maids  of  honour,  bouncing  Livingstone 
and  the  rest  of  them,  too  zealous  after  their  mistress’s  ease, 
and  too  jealous  lest  the  world  should  edge  them  out ;  and 
found  that  he  had  more  zest  for  the  world  and  the  spring 


CH.  I 


IN  THE  ANTECHAMBER 


1 1 


weather.  ‘Ah,  madam,’  he  said,  ‘ah,  my  niece,  this 
cloister-life  of  stroking,  and  kindly  knees,  is  not  one  for 
your  Majesty.  There  are  high  roads  out  yonder  to  be 
traversed,  armies  to  set  upon  them,  cities  and  towns  and 
hill-crests  to  be  taken.  But  you  sit  at  home  in  the  dark, 
nursed  by  your  maids  !  ’ 

She  raised  her  eyebrows,  not  her  eyes.  ‘  Why,’  says  she, 
‘the  King,  my  husband,  is  dead,  and  most  of  his  people 
glad  of  it,  I  believe.  If  my  kingdom  lies  within  these  four 
walls,  and  my  government  is  but  over  these  poor  girls,  they 
are  my  own.  What  else  should  I  do  ?  Walk  abroad  to 
mass  ?  Ride  abroad  to  the  meadows  ?  And  be  mocked  by 
the  people  for  a  barren  wife,  who  never  was  wife  at  all  ? 
And  be  browbeat  openly  by  the  Apothecary’s  Daughter  ? 
Is  this  what  you  set  before  me,  Lord  Cardinal  ?  ’ 

The  cardinal  put  up  his  chin  and  cupped  his  beard. 
‘  The  rich  may  call  themselves  poor,  the  poor  dare  not. 
You  have  a  realm,  my  niece,  and  a  fair  realm.  You  stand 
at  the  door  of  a  second.  You  may  yet  have  a  third,  it 
seems  to  me.’ 

Queen  Mary  looked  at  him  then,  with  a  gleam  in  her 
eyes  which  answered  for  a  smile.  But  she  hid  her  mind 
almost  at  once,  and  resumed  her  drumming. 

‘  King  Charles  is  hot  for  me,’  she  said.  ‘  He  is  a  brave 
lad.  I  should  be  Queen  of  France  again  —  of  France  and 
England  and  Scotland.’  She  laughed  softly  to  herself,  as 
if  snug  in  the  remembrance  that  she  was  still  sought. 

The  cardinal  became  exceedingly  serious.  ‘  I  have 
thought  of  that.  To  my  mind  there  is  a  beautiful 

justice - !  What  our  family  can  do  shall  be  done  — 

but,  alas - !  ’ 

She  broke  in  upon  him  here.  ‘  Our  family,  my  lord ! 
Your  family !  Ah,  that  was  a  good  marriage  for  me,  for 
example,  which  you  made !  That  ailing  child !  Death 
was  in  his  bed  before  ever  I  was  put  there.  My  marriage  ! 
My  husband !  He  used  to  cry  all  night  of  the  pain  in  his 
head.  He  clung  to  the  coverlet,  and  to  me,  lest  they  should 
pull  him  out  to  prayers.  Marriage  !  He  was  cankered  from 
his  birth.  What  king  was  Francis,  to  make  me  a  queen  ?  ’ 

The  cardinal  lifted  his  fine  head.  ‘  It  was  my  sister 


12 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


Marie  who  made  you  a  queen,  madam,  by  the  grace  of 
God  and  King  James.  Through  your  parentage  you  are 
Queen  of  Scotland,  and  should  be  Queen  of  England  —  and 
you  shall  be.  God  of  gods,  you  may  be  queen  of  whatso 
realm  you  please.  What  do  I  learn  ?  The  whole  world’s 
mind  runs  upon  the  marrying  of  you.  The  Archduke 
Ferdinand  hath  here  his  ambassadors,  attendant  on  the 
Queen-Mother’s  pleasure  —  which  you  allow  to  be  yours 
also.  Don  Carlos,  his  own  hand  at  the  pen,  writes  for  a 
hope  of  your  Majesty’s.  The  Earl  of  Huntly,  a  great  and 
religious  prince  in  Scotland,  urges  the  pretensions  of  his 
son,  the  Lord  of  Gordon.  Are  these  to  be  laid  before 
the  Queen-Mother?  To  the  duchess,  your  grandmother, 
writeth  daily  the  Duke  of  Chatelherault  concerning  his  son, 
the  Earl  of  Arran.  On  his  side  is  my  brother  the  Constable. 
More  !  They  bring  me  word  from  England  that  the  Earl 
of  Lennox,  next  in  blood  to  your  Majesty,  next  indeed  to 
both  your  thrones,  is  hopeful  to  come  to  France —  he,  too, 
with  a  son  in  his  pocket,  young,  apt,  and  lovely  as  a  love- 
apple.  All  these  hopeful  princes,  madam - ’ 

Queen  Mary  coloured.  With  difficulty  she  said :  ‘  I 
hear  of  every  one  of  them  for  the  first  time.’ 

‘  Oh,  madam,’  cried  the  cardinal,  ‘  so  long  as  you  sit  on 
your  maids’  knees  and  give  the  keys  of  your  chamber  to 
the  Queen-Mother,  you  will  only  hear  what  she  please  to 
tell  you.  And  more’ — he  raised  his  voice,  and  gave  it 
severity  —  ‘  I  take  leave  to  add  that  so  long  as  your  Majesty 
hath  Mistress  Livingstone  here  for  your  husband,  your 
Majesty  can  look  for  no  other.’ 

‘  I  am  never  likely  to  look  on  a  better,’  says  Queen 
Mary,  and  put  her  hand  behind  her.  Mary  Livingstone 
stooped  quickly  and  snatched  a  kiss  from  the  palm,  while 
the  cardinal  gazed  steadily  out  of  doors.  But  he  felt  more 
at  ease,  being  sure  that  he  had  leavened  his  lump. 

And  so  he  had.  The  sweet  fact  of  great  marriages 
beyond  her  doors,  and  the  sour  fact  of  the  Queen-Mother 
within  them,  worked  a  ferment  in  her  brain  and  set  her  at 
her  darling  joy  of  busy  scheming.  What  turned  the  scale 
over  was  the  mortifying  discovery  that  Catherine  de’ 
Medici  was  in  reality  dying  to  get  rid  of  her.  She  flew 


CH.  I 


IN  THE  ANTECHAMBER 


13 


into  a  great  rage,  changed  her  black  mourning  for  white, 
announced  her  departure,  paid  her  farewells,  and  went  to 
her  grandmother’s  court  at  Rheims.  Queen  Catherine 
watched  her,  darkling,  from  a  turret  as  she  rode  gaily  out  in 
her  troop  of  Guises.  ‘  There,’  she  is  reported  to  have  said, 
I  know  not  whether  truly  or  not,  ‘  there  goes  Madam 
Venus  a-hunting  the  apple.  Alas  for  Shepherd  Paris !  ’ 
The  reflection  is  a  shrewd  one  at  least ;  but  it  was  not  then 
so  certain  that  Orleans  had  seen  the  last  of  Queen  Mary. 
It  was  no  way  to  get  her  out  of  France  to  tell  her  there 
was  nothing  you  desired  so  much. 

The  old  duchess,  her  grandam,  talked  marriages  and  the 
throne  of  Scotland,  therefore,  into  ears  only  half  willing. 
The  little  Queen  was  by  no  means  averse  to  either,  but 
could  not  bring  herself  to  lose  hold  upon  France.  ‘  Better 
to  be  Dowager  of  France  than  an  Empress  in  the  north,’ 
she  said ;  and  then  ‘  Fiddle-de-dee,  my  child,’  the  old  lady 
retorted;  ‘give  me  a  live  dog  before  a  dead  lion.  Your 
desire  here  is  to  vex  La  Medicis.  You  would  make  eyes 
at  King  Charles,  and  we  should  all  lose  our  heads.  Do 
you  wish  to  end  your  days  at  Loches  ?  The  Duke  of 
Milan  found  cold  quarters  there,  they  tell  me.  No,  no. 
Marry  a  king’s  son  and  recover  England  from  the  Bastard.’ 
Thus  all  France  spake  of  our  great  Elizabeth. 

Queen  Mary,  though  she  loved  her  grandmother,  pinched 
her  lip,  looked  meek,  and  hardened  her  heart.  She  had 
obstinacy  by  the  father’s  mother’s  side  —  a  Tudor  virtue. 

It  was  just  after  she  had  gone  to  Nancy,  to  the  court  of 
her  cousin  of  Lorraine,  that  she  veered  across  to  the  side 
of  the  Guises  and  determined  to  adventure  in  Scotland. 
Two  Scots  lords  came  overseas  to  visit  her  there :  one 
was  the  Lord  James  Stuart,  her  base-brother,  the  other  a 
certain  Father  Lesley,  an  old  friend  of  her  mother’s.  The 
priest  was  a  timid  man,  but  by  good  hap  and  slenderness 
of  equipage  gained  her  first.  She  might  have  been  sure 
he  was  a  faithful  friend,  though  doubtful  if  a  very  wise  one. 
Faithful  enough  he  proved  in  days  to  come  :  at  this  present 
she  found  him  a  simple,  fatherly  man,  of  wandering  mind, 
familiar,  benevolent,  soon  scared.  He  was  enchanted  with 
her,  and  said  so.  He  praised  her  person,  the  scarlet  of  her 


14 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


lips,  the  bright  hue  of  her  hair.  4  A  bonny  brown,  my 
child,’  he  said,  touching  it,  ‘  to  my  partial  eyes.’  She 
laughed  as  she  told  him  that  in  Paris  also  they  had  liked 
the  colour.  ‘They  will  call  it  foxy  in  Scotland,’  he  said, 
with  a  sniff ;  and  she  found  out  afterwards  that  they  did. 
At  first  she  was  ‘madam’  here,  and  ‘your  Majesty’  there; 
but  as  the  talk  warmed  him  he  forgot  her  queenship  in  her 
extreme  youth,  had  her  hand  in  his  own  and  patted  it  with 
the  other.  Then  it  came  to  ‘  Child,  this  you  should  do,’  or 
‘  Child,  I  hope  that  is  not  your  usage  ’ ;  and  once  he  went 
so  far  as  to  hold  her  by  the  hands  at  arms’  length  and  peer 
at  her  through  his  kind,  weak  eyes,  up  and  down,  as  he 
said  to  himself,  ‘  Eh,  sirs,  a  tall  bit  lassie  to  stand  by 
Bruce’s  chair !  But  her  mother  was  just  such  another  one 

—  just  such  another.’ 

She  thought  this  too  far  to  go,  even  for  a  churchman, 
and  drew  off  with  a  smile  and  shake  of  the  head  —  not 
enough  to  humiliate  him. 

He  cautioned  her  with  fearful  winks  and  nods  against 
the  Lord  James  Stuart,  her  half-brother,  hinting  more  than 
he  dared  to  tell.  ‘That  man  hath  narrow  eyes,’  he  said; 
then,  recollecting  himself,  ‘  and  so  hath  your  Majesty  by 
right  of  blood.  All  the  Stuarts  have  them  —  the  base  and 
the  true.  But  his,  remark,  are  most  guarded  eyes,  so  that 
you  shall  not  easily  discover  in  what  direction  he  casts  his 
looks.  But  I  say,  madam,’  —  and  he  raised  his  wiry  voice, 

—  ‘  I  say  that  the  throne  is  ever  at  his  right  hand ;  and  I 
do  think  that  he  looks  ever  to  the  right.’ 

The  Queen’s  eyes  were  plain  enough  at  this  —  squirrel- 
colour,  straight  as  arrows.  Being  free-spoken  herself,  she 
disliked  periphrasis.  ‘  Does  my  brother  desire  my  throne  ? 
Is  this  your  meaning  ?  ’ 

He  jumped  back  as  if  she  had  whipped  him,  and  crossed 
himself  vehemently,  saying,  ‘  God  forbid  it !  God  forbid  it !  ’ 

‘  I  shall  forbid  it,  whether  or  no,’  said  the  Queen.  ‘  But 
I  suppose  you  had  some  such  meaning  behind  your  speech.’ 
And  she  pressed  him  until  she  learned  that  such  indeed 
was  the  belief  in  Scotland. 

‘Your  misborn  brother,  madam,’  he  said,  whispering, 
‘  will  tell  you  nothing  that  he  believeth,  and  ask  you 


CH.  I 


IN  THE  ANTECHAMBER 


15 


nothing  that  he  desireth ;  nor  will  he  any  man.  He  will 
urge  you  to  the  contrary  of  what  he  truly  requires.  He 
will  take  his  profit  of  another  man’s  sin  and  rejoice  to  see 
his  own  hands  clean.  My  heart,’  he  said,  forgetting  him¬ 
self, —  and  ‘Ah,  Jesu  !  ’  she  records,  ‘I  was  called  that 
again,  and  by  another  mouth,’  — ‘  My  heart,  if  you  tender 
the  peace  of  Holy  Church  in  your  land,  keep  your  brother 
James  in  France  under  lock  and  key.’ 

She  laughed  at  Ids  alarms.  ‘  I  wish  liberty  to  all  men 
and  their  consciences  sir.  I  am  sure  I  shall  find  friends 
in  Scotland.’ 

He  named  the  great  Earl  of  Huntly  and  his  four  sons  ; 
but  by  now  she  was  tired  of  him  and  sent  him  away.  All 
the  effect  of  the  poor  man’s  speeches  had  been  to  make  her 
anxious  to  measure  wits  with  her  base-brother.  He  came 
in  two  or  three  days  later  with  a  great  train,  and  she  had 
her  opportunity. 

What  she  made  of  it  you  may  judge  by  this,  that  it  was 
he  and  no  other  who  spurred  her  into  Scotland.  He  did  it, 
in  a  manner  very  much  his  own,  by  first  urging  it  and  then 
discovering  impossible  fatigues  in  the  road.  This  shows 
him  to  have  been,  what  he  was  careful  to  conceal,  a  student 
of  human  kind. 

A  certain  French  valet  of  the  Earl  of  Bothwell’s  — 
Nicolas  Hubart,  from  whose  Confessions  I  shall  have  to 
draw  liberally  by-and-by,  and  of  whom,  himself,  there  will 
be  plenty  to  say  —  made  once  an  acute  observation  of  the 
great  Lord  James,  when  he  said  that  he  was  that  sort  of 
man  who,  if  he  had  not  a  black  cloak  for  Sunday,  would 
be  an  atheist  or  even  an  epicurean.  There  was  no  one, 
certainly,  who  had  a  more  intense  regard  for  decent 
observance  than  he.  It  was  his  very  vesture :  he  would 
have  starved  or  frozen  without  it.  It  clothed  him  com¬ 
pletely  from  head  to  foot,  and  from  the  heart  outwards. 
Much  more  than  that.  There  are  many  in  this  world  who 
go  about  it  swathed  up  to  the  eyes,  imposing  upon  those 
they  meet.  But  this  man  imposed  first  of  all  upon  himself. 
So  complete  was  hisrobing,he  couldnot  see  himself  out  of  it. 
So  white  were  his  hands,  so  flawless  of  grit,  he  could  never 
see  them  otherwise.  Supposing  Father  Lesley  to  have  been 


16  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  i 

right,  supposing  that  James  Stuart  did  —  and  throughout  — 
plot  for  a  throne,  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  cry  out 
upon  the  vice  of  Brutus.  It  may  well  be  doubted  whether 
he  once,  in  all  his  life,  stood  alone  —  so  to  speak  —  naked 
before  his  own  soul.  Perhaps  such  a  man  can  hardly  be 
deemed  a  sinner,  whatever  he  do.  There  are  those  at  this 
hour  who  say  that  the  Lord  James  was  no  sinner.  How 
should  he  be  ?  they  cry.  His  own  soul  never  knew  it. 

This  tall,  pale,  inordinately  prim  nobleman,  with  his 
black  beard,  black  clothes,  and  (to  the  Queen’s  mind)  black 
beliefs,  seemed  to  walk  for  ever  in  a  mask  of  sour  passivity. 
He  never  spoke  when  to  bow  the  head  could  be  an  answer, 
he  never  affirmed  without  qualification,  he  never  denied  or 
refused  anything  as  of  his  own  opinion.  He  was  allowed 
to  have  extraordinarily  fine  manners,  even  in  France,  where 
alacrity  of  service  counted  for  more  than  the  service  itself ; 
and  yet  Queen  Mary  declared  that  she  had  never  seen  a 
man  enter  a  doorway  so  long  after  he  had  opened  the  door. 
He  seldom  looked  at  you.  His  voice  was  low  and  measured. 
He  cleared  his  throat  before  he  spoke,  and  swallowed  the 
moment  he  had  finished,  as  if  he  were  anxious  to  engulf 
any  possible  effect  of  his  words.  Of  all  the  ties  upon  a 
man  he  dreaded  most  those  of  the  heart-strings  :  she  never 
moved  him  to  natural  emotion  but  once.  But,  at  this  first 
coming  of  his,  he  paid  her  great  court,  and  bent  his  stiff 
knees  to  her  many  times  a  day  :  this  notwithstanding  that, 
as  Mary  Seton  affirmed,  he  had  water  on  one  of  them. 
She  said  that  she  had  that  from  his  chaplain,  but  her  love 
of  mischief  had  betrayed  her  love  of  truth.  The  Lord 
James  always  stood  to  his  prayers. 

When  the  Queen  saw  him  first  it  was  in  the  presence  of 
her  women,  of  Lord  Eglinton,  of  the  Marquis  D’Elboeuf, 
and  others  —  persons  who  either  hated  him  with  reason  or 
despised  him  with  none.  He  moved  her  then,  almost  with 
passion,  to  go  ‘  home  ’  to  Scotland,  saying  that  it  behoved 
princes  to  dwell  among  their  own  people.  But  at  a  privy 
audience  a  few  days  later,  he  held  to  another  tune  altogether, 
pursing  his  lips,  twiddling  his  two  thumbs,  looking  up  and 
down  and  about.  Now  he  said  that  he  was  not  sure;  that 
there  were  dangers  attending  a  Popish  Queen,  and  those 


CH.  I 


IN  THE  ANTECHAMBER 


17 


not  only  within  the  kingdom  but  without  it.  She  begged 
him  to  explain  himself. 

‘  Better  bide,  madam,’  said  he,  ‘  until  the  wind  change  in 
England.  ’ 

Any  word  of  England  always  excited  her.  The  colour 
flew  to  her  face.  ‘  What  hath  my  sister  in  England  to  do 
with  my  kingdom,  good  brother  ?  ’ 

‘Why,  madam,’  he  said,  ‘it  has  come  to  my  sure  know¬ 
ledge  that  you  shall  get  no  safe-conduct  from  the  English 
Queen,  to  go  smoothly  to  Scotland.’ 

He  never  watched  any  one,  or  was  never  observed  to  be 
watching ;  but  his  guarded  eyes,  glancing  at  her  as  they 
shifted,  showed  him  that,  being  angry  now,  she  was  beauti¬ 
ful  —  like  a  spirit  of  the  fire. 

‘  I  should  be  offended  at  what  you  report  if  I  believed  it 
possible,’  she  said  after  a  while.  ‘  And  yet  England  is  not 
the  only  road,  nor  is  it  the  best  road,  to  my  kingdom.’ 

‘No  indeed,  madam,’  he  agreed;  ‘but  it  is  the  only 
easy  road  for  a  young  and  delicate  lady.’ 

‘  Let  my  youth,  brother,  be  as  God  made  it,’  she 
answered  him ;  ‘  but  as  for  my  delicacy,  I  am  thankfully 
able  to  bear  fatigue  and  to  thrive  upon  it.  If  my  good 
sister,  or  you,  my  lord’  —  she  spoke  very  clearly — ‘think 
to  keep  me  from  my  own  by  threats  of  force  or  warnings 
of  danger,  I  would  have  you  understand  that  the  like  of 
those  is  a  spur  to  me.’ 

This  was  a  thing  which,  in  fact,  he  had  understood 
perfectly. 

‘  I  am  not  a  shying  horse,’  she  continued,  ‘  to  swerve  at 
a  heap  of  sand.  I  believe  I  shall  find  loyalty  in  my 
country,  and  cheerful  courage  there  to  meet  my  own 
courage.  There  be  those  that  laugh  at  danger  there,  as 
well  as  those  who  weep.’ 

He  said  suavely  here  that  she  misjudged  him,  that  only 
his  tenderness  for  her  person  was  at  fault.  ‘  We  grow 
timid  where  we  love  much,  madam.’ 

At  this  she  looked  at  him  so  unequivocally  that  he 
changed  the  subject. 

‘  If  your  Majesty,’  he  pursued,  ‘  knows  not  the  mind  of 
the  English  Queen,  or  misdoubts  my  reading  of  it,  let 


1 8  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  i 

application  be  made  to  Master  Throckmorton.  I  am  con¬ 
tent  to  be  judged  out  of  his  mouth.’ 

Master  Throckmorton  was  English  Ambassador  to  the 
Queen  of  Scots,  a  friend  of  the  Lord  James’s.  His  lord- 
ship,  indeed,  had  the  greater  confidence  in  giving  this 
advice  in  that  he  had  already  convinced  Master  Throck¬ 
morton  of  what  he  must  do,  and  what  say,  if  he  wished 
to  get  Queen  Mary  into  Scotland  —  as,  namely,  decline  to 
help  her  thither ;  decline,  for  instance,  a  letter  of  safe- 
conduct  through  English  soil. 

‘  Let  application  be  made  presently,  brother,’  said 
the  incensed  young  lady,  and  gladly  turned  to  her 
pleasures. 

She  had  been  finding  these  of  late  in  a  society  not  at  all 
to  the  mind  of  the  Lord  James.  Three  days  before  this 
conversation  the  Earl  of  Bothwell,  no  less,  had  come  to 
court,  making  for  the  North  from  Piedmont. 

In  years  to  come  she  could  remember  every  flash  and 
eddy  of  that  shifting  garden  scene  when  first  he  came  to 
her.  A  waft  of  scented  blossom,  the  throb  of  a  lute,  and 
she  could  see  the  peacock  on  the  wall,  the  gay  June 
borders,  the  grass  plats  and  bright  paths  in  between, 
quivering  with  the  heat  they  gave  out.  There  was  a 
fountain  in  the  midst  of  the  quincunx,  on  the  marble  brim 
of  which  she  sat  with  her  maids  and  cousin  D’Elboeuf, 
dipping  her  hand,  and  now  and  then  flicking  water  into 
their  faces.  A  page  in  scarlet  and  white  had  come  running 
up  to  say  that  the  Duke  was  nearing  with  his  gentlemen ; 
and  presently  down  the  long  alley  she  saw  them  moving 
slowly  —  crimson  cloaks  and  bared  heads,  the  Duke  in  the 
midst,  wearing  his  jewelled  bonnet.  He  was  talking,  and 
laughing  immoderately  with  some  one  she  knew  not  at  all, 
who  swung  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  to  whom,  as  she  re¬ 
membered  vividly,  the  struck  poppies  bowed  their  heads. 
For  he  hit  them  as  he  went  with  his  hat,  and  looked  round 
to  see  them  fall.  The  Duke’s  tale  continued  to  the  very 
verge  of  the  privy  garden ;  indeed  he  halted  there,  in  the 
face  of  her  usher,  to  finish  it.  She  saw  the  stranger  throw 
back  his  head  to  laugh.  ‘  What  a  great  jowl  he  hath,’  she 
said  to  Mary  Fleming;  and  she,  in  a  hush,  said,  ‘  Madam, 


CH.  I 


IN  THE  ANTECHAMBER 


19 


it  is  the  Earl  Bothwell.’  A  few  moments  later  the  man 
was  kneeling  before  her,  presented  by  the  Duke  himself. 
She  had  time  to  notice  the  page  to  whom  he  had  thrown 
his  hat  and  gloves  —  a  pale-faced,  wise-looking  French  boy, 
who  knelt  also,  and  watched  her  from  a  pair  of  grey  eyes 
‘  rimmed  with  smut-colour.’  His  name,  she  found  out 
afterwards,  was  Jean-Marie-Baptiste  Des-Essars.  She  liked 
his  manly  looks  from  the  first  —  little  knowing  who  and 
what  he  was  to  be  to  her.  Jean-Marie-Baptiste  Des- 
Essars  !  Keeper  of  the  Secret  des  Secrets  —  where  should  I 
be  without  him  ? 

The  Earl  of  Bothwell  —  whom  she  judged  (in  spite  of 
the  stricken  poppies)  to  be  good-humoured  —  was  a  galliard 
of  the  type  esteemed  in  France  by  those  —  and  they  were 
many  —  who  pronounced  vice  to  be  their  virtue.  A  galliard, 
as  they  say,  if  ever  there  was  one,  flushed  with  rich  blood, 
broad-shouldered,  square-jawed,  with  a  laugh  so  happy  and 
so  prompt  that  the  world,  rejoicing  to  hear  it,  thought  all 
must  be  well  wherever  he  might  be.  He  wore  brave  clothes, 
sat  a  brave  horse,  kept  brave  company  bravely.  His  high 
colour,  while  it  betokened  high  feeding,  got  him  the  credit 
of  good  health.  His  little  eyes  twinkled  so  merrily  that 
you  did  not  see  they  were  like  a  pig’s,  sly  and  greedy  at 
once,  and  bloodshot.  His  tawny  beard  concealed  a  jaw 
underhung,  a  chin  jutting  and  dangerous.  His  mouth  had 
a  cruel  twist;  but  his  laughing  hid  that  too.  The  bridge 
of  his  nose  had  been  broken ;  few  observed  it,  or  guessed 
at  the  brawl  which  must  have  given  it  him.  Frankness 
was  his  great  charm,  careless  ease  in  high  places,  an  air  of 
‘  take  me  or  leave  me,  I  go  my  way  ’ ;  but  some  mockery 
latent  in  him,  and  the  suspicion  that  whatever  you  said  or 
did  he  would  have  you  in  derision  —  this  was  what  first 
drew  Queen  Mary  to  consider  him.  And  she  grew  to  look 
for  it  —  in  those  twinkling  eyes,  in  that  quick  mouth;  and 
to  wonder  about  it,  whether  it  was  with  him  always  — 
asleep,  at  prayers,  fighting,  furious,  in  love.  In  fine,  he 
made  her  think. 

Mary  Livingstone  liked  not  the  looks  of  him  from  the 
first,  and  held  him  off  as  much  as  she  could.  She  slept 
with  her  mistress  in  these  days  of  widowhood,  but  refused 


20 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  1 


to  discuss  him  in  bed.  She  said  that  he  had  a  saucy  eye 
—  which  was  not  denied  —  and  was  too  masterful. 

‘You  can  tell  it  by  the  hateful  growth  of  hair  he  hath,’ 
she  cried.  ‘  When  he  lifts  up  his  head  to  laugh  —  and  he 
would  laugh,  mind  you,  at  the  crucified  Saviour  !  —  you  can 
see  the  climbing  of  his  red  beard,  like  rooted  ivy  on  an  old 
wall.’ 

It  is  true  that  his  beard  was  reddish,  and  gross-growing ; 
his  hair,  however,  was  dark  brown,  thick  and  curling. 
Mary  Livingstone  sniffed  at  his  hair.  He  stayed  ten  days 
at  Nancy,  saw  the  Queen  upon  each  of  them,  and  on  each 
held  converse  with  her.  She  liked  him  very  well,  studied 
him,  thought  him  more  important  than  he  really  was.  He 
laughed  at  her  for  this,  and  taxed  her  with  it ;  but  so 
pleasantly  that  she  was  not  at  all  offended.  The  Lord 
James  would  not  speak  of  him,  nor  he  of  the  Lord  James : 
he  shrugged  at  any  reference  to  him. 

‘  Let  it  be  enough,  madam,  to  own  that  we  do  not  love 
each  other,’  he  said  when  she  pressed  him.  ‘  We  view  the 
world  differently,  that  lord  and  I ;  for  I  look  on  the  evil 
and  the  good  with  open  face  and  what  cheer  I  can  muster, 
and  he  looks  through  his  fingers  and  sadly.  We  speak 
little  one  with  the  other :  what  he  thinks  of  me  I  know  not. 
I  think  him  a - ’ 

‘  Well,  my  lord  ?  You  think  my  brother  a - ?  ’ 

‘  A  king’s  son,  madam,’  he  said,  demurely ;  but  she  saw 
the  gleam  in  his  eye. 

He  spoke  fluent  French,  and  was  very  ready  with  his 
Italian.  He  was  a  latinist,  a  student  of  warfare,  had  read 
Machiavelli.  He  scared  away  a  good  many  poetasters  by 
a  real  or  an  affected  truculence  ;  threatened  to  duck  one  of 
them  in  the  fountain,  and  proved  that  he  could  do  it  by 
ducking  another.  The  effect  of  this  was,  as  he  had 
intended,  that  Queen  Mary  for  a  day  laughed  with  him  at 
the  art  of  poetry,  which  was  no  art  of  his.  That  day  he 
had  a  private  half-hour,  and  spoke  freely  of  himself  and  his 
ventures. 

‘  A  man  rich  in  desires,’  he  confessed  himself,  ‘  and 
therefore  of  great  wealth.  Put  the  peach  on  the  wall  above 
me,  madam,  and  I  shall  surely  grow  to  handle  it.  And 


CH.  I 


IN  THE  ANTECHAMBER 


21 


this  other  possession  is  mine,  that  while  I  strive  and  stretch 
after  my  prize  I  can  laugh  at  my  own  pains,  and  yet  not 
abate  them.’ 

She  considered  every  word  he  said,  and  dubbed  him 
Democritus,  her  laughing  philosopher. 

‘You  will  have  need  of  my  sect  in  Scotland,  madam,’ 
he  replied  with  a  bow.  ‘  Despise  it  not ;  for  in  that  grey 
country  the  very  skies  invite  us  to  mingle  tears.  You  have 
a  weeper  beside  you  even  now  —  the  Lord  Heraclitus,  a 
king’s  son.’ 

She  had  no  difficulty  in  discovering  her  stiff  brother 
James  under  this  thin  veil. 

All  was  going  on  thus  well  with  my  Lord  of  Bothwell 
when  Mary  Livingstone  heard  him  rate  his  page  in  the 
fore-court  one  morning  as  she  came  back  from  the  mass. 
She  caught  sight  also  of  ‘his  inflamed  and  wicked  face,’ 
and  saw  the  little  French  boy  flinch  and  turn  his  shoulder 
to  a  flood  of  words,  of  which  she  understood  not  half.  She 
guessed  at  them  from  the  rest.  ‘  They  must  needs  be  worse  ; 
and  yet  how  can  they  be  ?  And  oh  !  the  poor  little  Stoic 
with  his  white  face ! 5  The  good  girl  snapped  her  lips 
together  as  she  hurried  on.  ‘  He  shall  see  as  little  of  my 
bonny  Queen  as  I  can  provide  for,’  she  promised  herself. 
‘  I  have  heard  sculduddery  enough  to  befoul  all  Burgundy.’ 
Being  a  wise  virgin,  she  said  little  to  her  mistress  save  to 
urge  her  to  beg  the  French  boy  from  his  master. 

‘  Why  do  you  want  him,  child  ?  ’  the  Queen  asked. 

‘  He  hath  a  steadfast  look,  and  loves  you.  I  think  he 
will  serve  your  needs.  Get  him  if  you  care,’  was  all  the 
reply  she  could  win. 

The  thing  was  easily  done,  lightly  asked  and  lightly 
accorded. 

‘  Baptist,  come  hither,’  had  cried  my  lord ;  and  the  boy 
knelt  before  the  lady.  ‘I  have  sold  thee,  Baptist.’ 

‘Very  good,  monseigneur.’ 

The  Queen  sparkled  and  smiled  upon  him.  ‘  Wilt  thou 
come  with  me,  Jean-Marie  ?  ’ 

‘  Yes,  willingly,  madam.’ 

‘  And  do  me  good  service  ?  ’ 

‘  Nobody  in  the  world  shall  do  better,  madam.’ 


22 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


*  But  you  are  positive,  my  boy  !  ’ 

‘  I  do  well  to  be  positive,  madam,  in  such  a  cause  as  your 
Majesty’s.’ 

She  turned  to  the  Earl.  ‘  What  is  his  history  ?  ’ 

He  shrugged.  ‘The  Sieur  Des-Essars  —  a  gentleman 
of  Brabant  —  disporting  in  La  Beauce,  accosts  a  pretty 
Disaster  (to  call  her  so)  with  a  speaking  eye - ’ 

Jean-Marie-Baptiste  held  up  his  hand.  ‘Monseigneur, 
ah - !  ’ 

‘  How  now,  cockerel  ?  ’ 

‘You  speak  of  my  mother,  sir,’  he  said,  his  lip  quivering. 

‘  By  the  Mass,  and  so  I  do  !  ’  said  the  Earl. 

The  Queen  patted  the  lad’s  shoulder  before  she  sent 
him  away.  ‘  You  shall  tell  me  all  about  your  mother,  Jean- 
Marie,  when  we  are  in  Scotland.’ 

Jean-Marie-Baptiste  Des-Essars  quickly  kissed  her  sleeve, 
and  became  her  man.  More  of  him  in  due  time,  and  of 
what  he  saw  out  of  his  ‘  smut-rimmed  ’  eyes. 

When  English  Mr.  Throckmorton  was  reported  as 
within  a  day’s  ride  of  Nancy,  my  Lord  Bothwell  thought 
it  wise  to  take  leave.  His  odour  in  England  was  not  good, 
and  he  knew  very  well  that  the  Lord  James  would  not 
sprinkle  him  with  anything  which  would  make  it  better. 
So  he  presented  himself  betimes  in  the  morning,  said  his 
adieux  and  kissed  hands. 

‘  Farewell,  my  lord,’  says  Queen  Mary.  ‘  Lorraine  will 
be  the  sadder  for  your  going.’ 

‘  And  ever  fare  your  Majesty  well,’  he  answered  her 
gaily,  ‘as  in  Scotland  you  shall,  despite  the  weepers.’ 

‘  Do  you  go  to  Scotland,  my  lord  ?  ’ 

‘  Does  your  Majesty  ?  ’  says  he,  his  little  eyes  all  of  a 
twinkle. 

‘  My  question  was  first,  my  lord.’ 

‘And  the  answer  to  mine  is  the  answer  to  your 
Majesty’s.’ 

‘  My  Lord  Democritus,  am  I  to  laugh  when  you  leave 
me  ?  ’ 

‘  Why,  yes,  madam,  rather  than  to  lament  that  I  out¬ 
stay  my  welcome.’ 


CH.  I 


IN  THE  ANTECHAMBER 


23 


She  showed  her  pleasure ;  at  least,  he  saw  it  under  the 
skin.  So  he  left  her;  and  Mary  Livingstone,  as  she  said, 
could  ‘fetch  her  breath.’ 

Now,  as  to  Mr.  Throckmorton  —  if  the  Lord  James  had 
desired,  as  assuredly  he  did,  to  get  his  sister  to  Scotland, 
unwedded  and  in  a  hurry  ;  if  the  Queen  of  England  desired 
it  —  which  is  certain,  —  neither  could  have  used  a  better 
means  than  this  excellent  man.  The  Queen  was  in  a  royal 
rage  when  he,  with  great  troubles  and  many  shakings  of 
his  obsequious  head,  was  obliged  to  own  the  safe-conduct 
through  England  refused.  She  shut  herself  up  with  her 
maids,  and  endlessly  paced  the  floors,  avoiding  their  en¬ 
treating  arms.  They  besought  her  to  rest,  to  have  patience, 
to  sit  on  their  knees,  consult  her  uncles  of  Lorraine.  ‘  I 
shall  sit  in  no  chair,  nor  lie  in  any  bed,  until  I  am  at  sea,’ 
she  promised  them,  and  then  cried  :  ‘  What !  am  I  a  kennel- 
dog  to  the  Bastard  in  England  ?  ’ 

Nothing  in  the  world  should  stop  her.  She  would  go  to 
her  country  by  sea,  and  as  soon  as  they  could  fit  out  the 
galleys.  And  she  had  her  way  —  with  suspicious  ease,  if 
she  had  had  patience  to  observe  it;  for  it  happened  to  be 
the  way  of  three  other  persons  vitally  interested  in  her :  the 
Queen-Mother  of  France,  who  wished  to  get  rid  of  her; 
the  Queen  of  England,  who  hoped  she  would  get  rid  of 
herself  ;  and  the  Lord  James  Stuart,  uncomfortably  illegiti¬ 
mate,  who  hid  his  designs  from  his  own  soul,  and  looked 
at  affairs  without  seeming  to  look. 

Two  galleys  and  four  great  ships  took  her  and  her 
adventurous  company  from  Calais,  on  a  day  in  August  of 
high  sun  and  breeze,  with  a  misty  brown  bank  on  the  horizon 
where  England  should  lie.  Guns  shot  from  the  forts  were 
answered  from  the  ships ;  to  the  Oriflamme  of  France  the 
Scots  Queen  answered  with  her  tressured  Lion,  and  the 
English  Leopards  and  Lilies.  Of  all  the  gallant  company 
embarked  there  was  none  who  looked  more  ardently  to  the 
north  than  she  who  was  to  sit  in  the  high  seat  at  Stirling. 
Let  Mary  Fleming  look  down,  and  Mary  Beaton  raise  her 
eyebrows  ;  let  Mary  Seaton  shrug  and  Mary  Livingstone  toss 
her  young  head ;  they  are  greatly  mistaken  who  suppose 


24 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


that  Mary  Stuart  went  unwillingly  to  Scotland,  or  wetted 
her  pillow  with  tears.  She  cried  when  she  bade  adieu  to 
her  grandmother  —  tears  of  kindness  those.  But  her  heart 
was  high  to  be  Queen,  and  her  head  full  of  affairs.  How 
she  judged  men !  What  measures  she  devised  !  Ask  Mary 
Livingstone  whether  they  two  slept  of  nights,  or  whether 
they  talked  of  the  deeds  of  Queen  Mary  —  what  she  should 
do,  what  avoid,  how  walk,  how  safeguard  herself.  She  lay 
in  a  pavilion  on  the  upper  deck,  and  turned  her  face  to 
where  she  thought  Scotland  should  be.  But  Mary  Living¬ 
stone  showed  Scotland  her  back,  and  sheltered  her  Queen 
in  her  arms. 


CHAPTER  II 


HERE  YOU  STEP  INTO  THE  FOG 

Now,  when  they  had  been  three  days  at  sea,  standing  off 
Flamborough  in  England,  the  wind  veered  to  the  south¬ 
east,  and  dropped  very  soon.  They  had  to  row  the  ships 
for  lack  of  meat  for  the  sails  to  fill  themselves;  the  face  of 
the  world  was  changed,  the  sun  blotted  out.  It  became 
chilly,  with  a  thin  rain  ;  there  drew  over  the  sea  a  curtain 
of  soft  fog  which  wrapped  them  up  as  in  a  winding-sheet, 
and  seemed  to  clog  the  muscles  of  men’s  backs,  so  that 
scarcely  way  could  be  made.  In  this  white  darkness  — for 
such  it  literally  was  —  the  English  took  the  Earl  of  Eglinton 
in  his  ship,  silently,  without  a  cry  to  be  heard ;  but  in  it 
also  they  lost  the  Queen’s  and  all  the  rest  of  her  convoy. 
Rowing  all  night  and  all  next  day,  sounding  as  they  went 
in  a  sea  like  oil,  the  Scots  company  drew  past  St.  Abb’s, 
guessed  at  Dunbar,  found  and  crept  under  the  ghost  of  the 
Bass,  came  at  length  with  dripping  sheets  into  Leith  Road 
by  night,  and  so  stayed  to  await  the  morn.  They  fired 
guns  every  hour ;  nobody  slept  on  board. 

That  night  which  they  began  with  music,  some  dancing 
and  playing  forfeits,  was  one  of  deathly  stillness.  The 
guns  made  riot  by  the  clock ;  but  the  sea-fog  drugged  all 
men’s  spirits.  The  Queen  was  pensive,  and  broke  up  the 
circle  early.  She  went  to  bed,  and  lay  listening,  as  she 
said,  to  Scotland.  As  it  wore  towards  dawn  she  could 
have  heard,  if  yet  wakeful,  great  horns  blown  afar  off  on 
the  shore,  answering  her  guns,  the  voices  of  men  and 
women,  howling,  quarrelling,  or  making  merry  after  their 


26 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


fashion;  steeple  bells;  sometimes  the  knocking  of  oars  as 
unseen  boats  rowed  about  her.  Once  the  sentry  on  the 
upper  deck  challenged :  ‘  Qui  va  la  ?  ’  in  a  shrill  voice. 
There  was  smothered  laughter,  but  no  other  reply.  He 
fired  his  piece,  and  there  came  a  great  scurry  in  the  water, 
which  woke  the  Queen  with  a  start. 

‘Was  that  the  English  guns  ?  Are  we  engaged  ? 5 

‘No,  no,  madam  ;  you  forget.  We  are  in  our  own  land 
by  now,  safe  between  the  high  hills  of  Scotland.  ’Twas 
some  folly  of  the  guard.’ 

She  was  told  it  had  gone  six  o’clock,  and  insisted  on 
rising.  Father  Roche,  her  confessor,  said  mass;  and  after 
that  Mary  Seton  had  a  good  tale  for  her  private  ear. 
Monsieur  de  Bourdeilles,  it  seems,  the  merry  gentleman, 
had  held  Monsieur  de  Chatelard  embraced  against  his  will 
under  one  blanket  all  night,  to  warm  himself.  This 
Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  a  poet  of  some  hopefulness,  owned 
himself  Queen  Mary’s  lover,  and  played  the  part  with  an 
ardour  and  disregard  of  consequence  which  are  denied  to 
all  but  his  nation.  A  lover  is  a  lover,  whether  you  admit 
him  or  not ;  his  position,  though  it  be  self-chosen,  is 
respectable :  but  no  one  could  refuse  the  merits  of  this 
story.  Monsieur  de  Bourdeilles  was  sent  for  —  a  wise¬ 
looking,  elderly  man. 

‘  Sieur  de  Brantome,’  says  the  Queen — that  was  his 
degree  in  the  world  —  ‘  how  did  you  find  the  warmth  of 
Monsieur  de  Chatelard  ?  ’ 

‘Upon  my  faith,  madam,’  says  he,  ‘  your  Majesty  should 
know  better  than  I  did  whether  he  is  alight  or  not.’ 

‘  I  think  that  is  true,’  said  Queen  Mary ;  ‘  but  now 
also  you  will  have  learned,  as  I  have,  to  leave  him 
alone.’ 

The  Grand  Prior — a  Guise,  the  Queen’s  uncle  and  a 
portly  man  —  came  in  to  see  his  niece.  He  reported  a  wan 
light  spread  abroad :  one  might  almost  suppose  the  sun  to 
be  somewhere.  If  her  Majesty  extinguished  the  candles 
her  Majesty  would  still  be  able  to  see.  It  was  curious. 
He  considered  that  a  landing  might  be  made,  for  news 
of  the  ships  was  plainly  come  ashore.  Numberless  small 


ch.  ii  HERE  YOU  STEP  INTO  THE  FOG 


27 


boats,  he  said,  were  all  about,  full  of  people  spying  up  at 
the  decks.  Curious  again :  he  had  been  much  enter¬ 
tained. 

‘  You  shall  show  yourself  to  them,  madam,  if  you  will 
be  guided  by  me,’  says  Mary  Livingstone.  The  Grand 
Prior  was  not  against  it. 

‘  Well,’  says  the  Queen,  ‘  let  us  go,  then,  to  see  and  be 
seen.’ 

One  of  the  maids  —  Seton,  I  gather  —  made  an  outcry : 
‘  Oh,  ma’am,  you  will  never  go  to  them  in  your  white 
weed  !  ’ 

‘  How  else,  child  ?  ’ 

Seton  caught  at  her  hand.  ‘  Like  the  bonny  Queen 
Mab  —  like  the  Fairy  Vivien  that  charmed  Tamlane  out  of 
his  five  wits.  Thus  you  should  go  !  ’ 

The  Queen  turned  blushing  to  the  Grand  Prior. 

‘  How  shall  I  show  myself,  good  uncle  ?  ’ 

‘  My  niece,  you  are  fair  enough  now.’ 

‘  Is  it  true  ?  ’  she  said.  ‘  Then  I  will  be  fairer  yet.  Get 
me  what  you  will ;  make  a  queen  of  me.  Fleming,  you 
shall  choose.’ 

Mary  Fleming,  a  gentle  beauty,  considered  the  case.  ‘  I 
shall  dress  your  Majesty  in  the  white  and  green,’  she 
declared,  and  was  gone  to  get  it. 

So  they  dressed  her  in  white  and  green,  with  a  crown  of 
stars  for  her  hair,  and  covered  her  in  a  carnation  hood 
against  the  cold.  Then  she  was  brought  out  among  the 
four  of  them  to  lean  on  the  poop  and  see  the  people.  A 
half-circle  of  stately,  cloaked  gentlemen  —  all  French,  and 
mainly  Guises  —  stood  behind  ;  but  Monsieur  de  Chatelard, 
shaking  like  a  leaf,  sought  the  prop  of  a  neighbouring 
shoulder  for  his  arm.  It  was  modestly  low,  and  belonged 
to  Des-Essars,  the  new  page. 

‘  My  gentle  youth,’  said  the  poet,  after  thanking  him  for 
his  services,  ‘  I  am  sick  because  I  love.  Do  you  see  that 
smothered  goddess  ?  Learn  then  that  I  adore  her,  and  so 
was  able  to  do  even  in  the  abominable  arms  of  Monsieur 
de  Brantome.’ 

‘  I  also  consider  her  Majesty  adorable,’  replied  the  page 
with  gravity;  ‘but  I  do  not  care  to  say  so  openly.’ 


28 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


‘  If  your  wound  be  not  kept  green,’  Monsieur  de  Chate- 
lard  reproved  him,  ‘  if  it  is  covered  up,  it  mortifies,  you 
bleed  internally,  and  you  die.’ 

Des-Essars  bowed.  ‘Why,  yes,  sir.  There  is  no 
difficulty  in  that.’ 

‘  Far  from  it,  boy  —  far  from  it !  Exquisite  ease,  rather.’ 

‘It  is  true,  sir,’  said  Des-Essars.  ‘Well!  I  am  ready.’ 

‘  And  I,  boy,  must  get  ready.  Soothsayers  have  assured 
me  that  I  shall  die  in  that  lady’s  service.’ 

‘I  intend  to  live  in  it,’  said  Des-Essars;  ‘for  she  chose 
me  to  it  herself.’ 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard  considered  this  alternative. 
‘Your  intention  is  fine,’  he  allowed;  ‘but  my  fate  is  the 
more  piteous.’ 

Whether  the  people  knew  their  Queen  or  not,  they  gave 
little  sign  of  it.  They  seemed  to  her  a  grudging  race,  un¬ 
willing  to  allow  you  even  recognition.  She  had  been  highly 
pleased  at  first :  watched  them  curiously,  nodded,  laughed, 
kissed  her  hand  to  some  children  —  who  hid  their  faces,  as 
if  she  had  put  them  to  shame.  Some  pointed  at  her,  some 
shook  their  heads  ;  none  saluted  her.  Most  of  them  looked 
at  the  foreign  servants:  a  great  brown  Gascon  sailor,  who 
leaned  half-naked  against  the  gunwale ;  a  black  in  a  yellow 
turban ;  a  saucy  Savoyard  girl  with  a  bare  bosom ;  and 
some,  nudging  others,  said,  ‘  A  priest !  a  priest !  ’  —  and 
one,  a  big,  wild,  red-capped  man,  stood  up  in  his  boat, 
and  pointed,  and  cried  out  loud,  ‘  To  hell  with  the  priest!  ’ 
The  cold  curiosity,  the  uncouth  drab  of  the  scene,  the  raw 
damp  —  and  then  this  savage  burst  —  did  their  work  on 
her.  She  was  sensitive  to  weather,  and  quick  to  read 
hearts.  Being  chilled,  her  own  heart  grew  heavy.  ‘  I  wish 
to  go  away.  They  stare  ;  there  is  no  love  here,’  she  said, 
and  went  down  the  companion,  and  sat  in  her  pavilion 
without  speaking.  She  let  Mary  Livingstone  take  her 
hand.  At  that  hour,  I  know,  her  thought  was  piercingly 
of  France,  and  the  sun,  and  the  peasant  girls  laughing  to 
each  other  half  across  the  breezy  fields. 

Barges  came  to  board  the  Queen’s  galley ;  strong-faced 
gentlemen,  muffled  in  cloaks,  sat  in  the  stern  ;  all  others 
stood  up  — even  the  rowers,  who  faced  forward  like  Vene- 


ch.  ii  HERE  YOU  STEP  INTO  THE  FOG  29 


tians  and  pushed  rather  than  pulled  the  slow  vessels. 
Running  messengers  kept  her  informed  of  arrivals  :  the 
Provost  of  Edinburgh  was  come,  the  Captain  of  the  Castle, 
the  Lord  of  Lethington,  Maitland  by  name,  secretary  to 
her  mother  the  late  Queen ;  her  half-brothers,  the  Lords 
James  and  Robert  Stuart,  and  more  —  all  civil,  all  with 
stiff  excuses  that  preparations  were  so  backward.  She 
would  see  none  but  her  brothers,  and,  at  the  Lord  James’ 
desire,  Mr.  Secretary  Maitland  of  Lethington.  Him  she 
discerned  to  be  a  taut,  nervous,  greyish  man,  with  a  tired 
face.  She  was  prepared  to  like  him  for  her  mother’s  sake ; 
but  he  was  on  his  guard,  unaccountably,  and  she  too  dis¬ 
pirited  to  pursue.  Des-Essars,  in  his  Secret  Memoirs ,  says 
that  he  remembers  to  have  noticed,  young  as  he  was,  how 
this  Lethington’s  eyes  always  sought  those  of  the  Lord 
James  before  he  spoke.  ‘Sought,’  he  says,  ‘but  never 
found  them.’  Sharply  observed  for  a  boy  of  fourteen. 

Well,  here  was  a  dreary  beginning,  which  must  never¬ 
theless  be  pushed  to  some  kind  of  ending.  Before  noon 
she  was  landed  —  upon  a  muddy  shore,  the  sea  being  at  the 
ebb  —  without  cloth  of  estate,  or  tribune,  or  litter,  with  a 
few  halberdiers  to  make  a  way  for  her  through  a  great 
crowd.  She  looked  at  the  ooze  and  slimy  litter.  ‘  Are  we 
amphibians  in  Scotland?  ’  she  asked  her  cousin  D’Elboeuf. 
His  answer  was  to  splash  down  heroically  into  the  mess 
and  throw  his  cloak  upon  it.  ‘  Gentlemen,’  he  cried  out  in 
his  own  tongue,  ‘  make  a  Queen’s  way  !  ’  He  had  not  long 
to  wait.  A  tragic  cry  from  Monsieur  de  Chatelard  informed 
all  Leith  that  he  was  wading  ashore.  Fine,  but  retarding 
action  !  His  cloak  was  added  late  to  a  long  line  of  them  - 
all  French  :  the  Marquis’s,  the  Grand  Prior’s,  Monsieur 
D’Amville’s,  Monsieur  de  Brantome’s,  Monsieur  de  La 
Noue’s,  many  more.  There  were  competitions,  encouraging 
cries,  great  enthusiasm.  The  people  jostled  each  other  to 
get  a  view ;  the  Scots  lords  looked  staidly  on,  but  none 
offered  their  cloaks. 

Thus  it  was  that  she  touched  Scottish  soil,  as  Mr. 
Secretary  remarked  to  himself,  through  a  foreign  web.  A 
little  stone  house,  indescribably  mean  and  close,  was  open 
to  her  to  rest  in  while  the  horses  were  made  ready.  *1  hither 


30 


THE  QUEEN'S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


came  certain  lords  —  Earls  of  Argyll  and  Atholl,  Lords 
Erskine,  Herries,  and  others' — to  kiss  hands.  She  allowed 
it  listlessly,  not  distinguishing  friend  from  unfriend.  All 
faces  seemed  alike  to  her :  wooden,  overbold,  weathered 
faces,  clumsy  carvings  of  an  earlier  day,  with  watchful, 
suspicious  eyes  put  in  them  to  make  them  alive.  Her  ladies 
were  with  her,  and  her  uncles.  The  little  room  was  filled 
to  overflowing,  and  in  and  out  of  the  passage-ways  elbowed 
the  French  gallants  shouting  for  their  grooms.  No  one 
was  allowed  to  have  any  speech  with  the  Queen,  who  sat 
absorbed  and  unobservant  in  the  packed  assembly,  a  French 
guard  all  about  her,  with  Mary  Livingstone  kneeling  beside 
her,  whispering  French  comfort  in  her  ear. 

Above  the  surging  and  the  hum  of  the  shore  could  be 
heard  the  beginnings  of  clamour.  The  press  at  the  doors 
was  so  great  they  could  scarcely  bring  up  the  horses  ; 
and  when  the  hackbutters  beat  them  back  the  people 
murmured.  Monsieur  D’Amville’s  charger  grew  restive 
and  backed  into  the  crowd  :  they  howled  at  him  for  a 
Frenchman,  and  were  not  appeased  to  discover  by  the 
looks  of  him  that  he  was  proud  of  the  fact.  There  was 
much  sniffing  and  spying  for  priests,  —  well  was  it  for 
Father  Roche  and  his  mates  that,  having  been  warned, 
they  lay  still  among  the  ships,  intending  not  to  land  till 
dusk.  How  was  her  Majesty  to  be  got  out?  It  seemed 
that  she  was  a  prisoner.  The  Master  of  the  Horse  could 
do  nothing  for  his  horses  ;  the  Master  of  the  Household 
was  penned  in  the  doorway.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
Lord  James,  Queen  Mary  must  have  spent  the  night  on 
the  sea-shore.  But  the  people  fell  back  this  way  and  that 
when,  bareheaded,  he  came  out  of  the  house.  ‘  Give  way 
there  —  make  a  place,’  he  said,  in  a  voice  hardly  above  the 
speaking  tone ;  and  way  and  place  were  made. 

Two  or  three  of  the  French  lords  observed  him.  ‘  He 
has  the  gestures  of  a  king,  look  you.’ 

‘You  are  right;  and,  they  tell  me,  a  king’s  desires.  Do 
you  see  that  he  measures  them  with  his  eye  before  he 
speaks,  as  if  to  judge  what  strength  he  should  use  ?  ’ 

They  brought  up  the  horses  ;  the  Queen  came  out.  Up 
a  steep,  straggling  street,  finally,  they  rode  in  some  kind  of 


ch.  ii  HERE  YOU  STEP  INTO  THE  FOG 


3i 


broken  order,  in  a  lane  cut,  as  it  were,  between  dumb  walls 
of  men  and  women.  Monsieur  de  Brantome  remarked  to 
his  neighbour  that  it  was  for  all  the  world  as  if  travelling 
mountebanks  were  come  to  town.  Very  few  greeted  her, 
none  seemed  to  satisfy  any  feeling  but  curiosity.  They 
pointed  her  out  to  one  another.  ‘Yonder  she  goes.  See, 
yonder,  in  the  braw,  cramoisy  hood  !  ’  ‘  See,  man,  the 

bonny  long  lass  !  ’  *  I  mind,’  said  one,  ‘  to  have  seen  her 

mother  brought  in.  Just  such  another  one.’  Some  cried, 
‘See  you,  how  she  arches  her  fine  neck.’  Others,  ‘She 
hath  the  eyes  of  all  her  folk.’  ‘  A  dangerous  smiler :  a 
Frenchwoman  just.’ 

She  did  not  hear  these  things,  or  did  not  notice  them, 
being  slow  to  catch  at  the  Scots  tongue.  But  one  wife 
cried  shrilly,  ‘  God  bless  that  sweet  face  !  ’  and  that  she 
recognised,  and  laughed  her  glad  thanks  to  the  kindly 
soul. 

Most  eyes  were  drawn  to  the  French  princes,  and  missed 
her  in  following  them  and  their  servants.  The  Grand  Prior 
made  them  wonder :  his  stateliness  excused  him  the  abhorred 
red  cross  ;  but  chief  of  them  all  seemed  Monsieur  de  Chate- 
lard,  very  splendid  in  white  satin  and  high  crimson  boots, 
and  a  tall  feather  in  his  cap.  Some  thought  he  was  the 
Pope’s  son,  some  the  Prince  of  Spain  come  to  marry  the 
Queen;  but,  ‘Havers,  woman,  ’tis  just  her  mammet,’  said 
one  in  Mary  Beaton’s  hearing.  The  Queen  laughed  when 
this  was  explained  to  her,  and  remembered  it  for  Monsieur 
de  Brantome.  But  she  only  laughed  those  two  times 
between  Leith  shore  and  Holyroodhouse. 

Her  spirits  mended  after  dinner.  She  held  an  informal 
court,  and  set  herself  diligently  to  please  and  be  pleased. 
She  desired  the  Lord  of  Lethington,  in  the  absence  of  a 
Lord  Chamberlain,  to  make  the  presentations  ;  he  was  to 
stand  by  her  side  and  answer  all  questions.  He  spoke  her 
language  with  a  formal  ease  which  she  found  agreeable, 
betrayed  a  caustic  humour  now  and  again,  was  far  more  to 
her  taste  than  at  first.  She  saw  the  old  Duke  of  Chatel- 
herault  and  his  scared  son,  my  Lord  of  Arran. 

‘  Hamiltons,  madam,’  said  Lethington  tersely,  and 
thought  he  had  said  all;  but  she  had  to  be  told  that 


32 


THE  QUEEN'S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


they  claimed  to  stand  next  in  blood  to  herself  and  the 
throne  of  Scotland. 

‘The  blood  has  been  watered,  it  seems  to  me,’  she  said. 
‘  One  can  see  through  that  old  lord.’ 

‘  Madam,  that  is  his  greatest  grief.  He  cannot,  if  he 
would,  conceal  his  pretensions.’ 

‘  Explain  yourself,  sir.’ 

‘  Madam,  you  can  see  that  he  is  empty.  But  he  pre¬ 
tends  to  fulness.’ 

‘  And  that  white  son  of  his,  my  Lord  of  Arran  ?  Does 
he  too  pretend  to  be  full  —  in  the  head,  for  example  ?  ’ 

She  embarrassed  Mr.  Secretary. 

Mary  Livingstone,  at  this  point,  came  to  her  flushed 
and  urgent :  ‘  Madam,  madam,  my  good  father  !  ’  A  jolly 
gentleman  was  before  her,  who,  in  the  effusion  of  his  loy¬ 
alty,  forgot  to  kneel.  ‘Your  knees,  my  lord,  your  knees!’ 
his  daughter  whispered  ;  but  the  fine  man  replied,  ‘  No,  no, 
my  bairn.  I  stand  up  to  fight  for  the  Queen,  and  she  shall 
e’en  see  all  my  gear.’ 

Queen  Mary,  not  ceremonious  by  nature,  smiled  and 
was  gracious:  they  conversed  by  these  signs  of  the  head 
and  mouth,  for  he  had  no  French. 

To  go  over  names  would  be  tedious,  and  so  might  have 
proved  to  her  Majesty  had  not  Lethington  fitted  each 
sharply  with  a  quality.  Such  a  man  was  of  her  Majesty’s 
religion  —  my  Lord  Herries,  now;  such  of  Mr.  Knox’s  — 
see  that  square-browed,  frowning  Lord  of  Lindsay.  Mr. 
Knox  had  reconciled  this  honourable  man  and  his  wife. 
It  was  whispered  —  this  for  her  Majesty’s  ear!  —  that  all 
was  not  well  between  my  Lord  of  Argyll  and  his  lady, 
her  Majesty’s  half-sister.  Would  Mr.  Knox  intervene? 
At  her  Majesty’s  desire  beyond  doubt  he  would  do  it. 
The  Duke  of  Chatelherault  held  all  the  west  as  appanage 
of  the  Hamiltons,  except  a  small  territory  round  about 
Glasgow,  to  which  her  Majesty’s  kinsman  Lennox  laid 
claim.  The  claim  was  faint,  since  the  Lennox  was  in 
England.  It  was  supposed  that  fear  of  the  Hamiltons 
kept  him  there;  but  if  her  Majesty  would  be  pleased  she 
could  reconcile  the  two  houses. 

The  Queen  blinked  her  eyes.  ‘  Reconciliation  seems  to 


ch.  ii  HERE  YOU  STEP  INTO  THE  FOG  33 


be  your  Mr.  Knox’s  prerogative.  I  have  not  yet  learned 
from  you  what  mine  may  be.’ 

‘Yours,  madam,’  said  Lethington,  ‘  is  the  greater,  because 
gentler,  hand  —  to  put  it  no  higher  than  that!  Moreover, 
the  Stuarts  of  Lennox  share  your  Majesty’s  faith ;  and 
Mr.  Knox - ’ 

‘  Ah,’  cried  the  Queen,  ‘  I  conceive  your  Mr.  Knox  is 
Antipope !  ’ 

Mr.  Secretary  confessed  that  some  had  called  him  so. 

‘  And  what  does  my  cousin  Chatelherault  call  him  ?  ’  she 
asked. 

He  explained  that  the  Duke  paid  him  great  respect. 

‘Let  me  understand  you,’  said  Queen  Mary.  ‘The 
Duke  is  master  of  the  west,  and  Mr.  Knox  of  the  Duke. 
Who  is  master  of  Mr.  Knox  ?  ’ 

‘Oh,  madam,  he  will  serve  your  Majesty.  I  am  sure  of 
him.’ 

She  was  not  so  sure :  she  wondered.  Then  she  found 
that  she  was  frowning  and  pinching  her  lip,  so  broke  into 
a  new  line. 

‘  Let  us  take  the  south,  Monsieur  de  Lethington.  Who 
prevails  in  those  parts  ?  ’ 

He  told  her  that  there  were  many  great  men  to  be  con¬ 
sidered  there:  my  Lord  Herries,  my  Lord  Hume,  the 
Earl  of  Bothwell.  This  name  interested  her,  but  she  was 
careful  not  to  single  it  out. 

‘  And  is  Mr.  Knox  the  master  of  these  ?  ’ 

‘  Not  so,  madam.  My  Lord  Herries  is  of  the  old 
religion;  and  my  Lord  of  Bothwell - ’ 

‘  Does  he  laugh  ?  ’ 

‘  I  fear,  madam,  it  is  a  mocking  spirit.’ 

‘Why,’  says  she,  ‘does  he  laugh  at  Mr.  Knox?’ 

Mr.  Secretary  detected  the  malice.  ‘  Alas  !  your  Majesty 
is  pleased  to  laugh  at  her  servant.’ 

‘Well,  let  us  leave  M.  de  Boduel  to  his  laughter.  Who 
rules  the  north  ?  ’ 

‘  The  Earl  of  Huntly  is  powerful  there,  madam.’ 

‘  I  have  had  intelligence  of  him.  He  is  a  Catholic. 
Well,  well !  And  now  you  shall  tell  me,  Mr.  Secretary, 
where  my  own  kingdom  is.’ 


34 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


‘Oh,  madam,  it  is  in  the  hearts  of  your  people.  You 
have  all  Scotland  at  your  feet.’ 

‘  Let  us  take  a  case.  Have  I,  for  example,  your  Mr. 
Knox  at  my  feet  ?  ’ 

‘  Surely,  madam/ 

‘  We  shall  see.  I  tell  you  fairly  that  I  do  not  choose  to 
be  at  his.  He  has  written  against  women,  I  hear.  Is  he 
wed  ?  ’ 

‘  Madam,  he  is  twice  a  widower.’ 

‘  He  is  severe.  But  he  should  be  instructed  in  his 
theme.  He  may  have  reason.  Where  is  my  brother  ?  * 

‘The  Lord  James  is  at  his  prayers,  madam.’ 

‘  I  hope  he  will  remember  me  there.  I  see  that  I  shall 
need  advocacy.’ 

Her  head  ached,  her  eyes  were  stiff  with  watching. 
She  said  her  good-night  and  retired.  At  that  hour  there 
was  a  great  shouting  and  crying  in  the  courtyard,  and  out 
of  the  midst  there  spired  a  wild  music  of  rebecks,  fiddles, 
scrannel-pipes,  and  a  monstrous  drum  out  of  tune.  The 
French  lords  said,  ‘Tenez,  on  s’amuse !  ’  and  raised  their 
eyebrows.  The  Queen  shivered  over  a  sea-coal  fire.  Now 
at  last  she  remembered  all  fair  France,  saw  it  in  one 
poignant,  long  look  inwards,  and  began  to  cry.  ‘  I  am  a 
fool,  a  fool  —  but,  oh  me!  I  am  wretched,’  she  said,  and 
rocked  herself  about.  The  comfort  of  women  —  kisses, 
strokings,  mothering  arms  —  was  applied;  they  put  her  to 
bed,  and  Mary  Livingstone  sat  by  her.  This  young 
woman  was  in  high  feather,  surveyed  the  prospect  with 
calmness,  not  at  all  afraid.  Her  father,  she  said,  had  put 
before  her  the  desires  of  all  those  gentry :  he  had  never 
had  such  court  paid  him  in  his  long  life.  This  it  was  to 
be  father  to  a  maid  of  honour.  The  Duke  had  taken  him 
apart  before  dinner,  urging  the  suit  of  his  son  Arran  for 
the  Queen’s  hand.  The  Lord  James  had  spoken  of  an 
earldom  ;  Lethington  could  not  see  enough  of  him.  ‘  Hey, 
my  lamb,’  she  ended,  stroking  the  Queen’s  hot  face,  ‘we 
will  have  them  all  at  your  feet  ere  this  time  seven 
days ;  and  a  lass  in  her  teens  shall  sway  wild  Scotland !  ’ 
The  Queen  sighed,  and  snuggled  her  cheek  into  the  open 
hand. 


ch.  ii  HERE  YOU  STEP  INTO  THE  FOG  35 


Just  as  she  was  dozing  off  there  was  to  be  heard  a 
scurry  of  feet  along  the  corridor,  the  crash  of  a  door 
admitting  a  burst  of  sound  —  in  that,  the  shiver  of  steel  on 
steel,  a  roar  of  voices,  a  loud  cry  above  all,  ‘He  hath  it! 
He  hath  it !  ’  The  Queen  started  up  and  held  her  heart. 
‘  What  do  they  want  of  me  ?  Is  it  Mr.  Knox  ?  ’  Livingstone 
ran  into  the  antechamber  among  the  huddling  women 
there.  Des-Essars  came  to  them  bright-eyed  to  say  it  was 
nothing.  It  was  Monsieur  D’Elboeuf  fighting  young 
Erskine  about  a  lady.  The  duel  had  been  arranged  at 
supper.  They  had  cleared  the  tables  for  the  fray. 


CHAPTER  III 


SUPERFICIAL  PROPERTIES  OF  THE  HONEYPOT 

When  they  told  her  what  was  the  name  Mr.  Knox  had 
for  her,  and  how  it  had  been  caught  up  by  all  the  winds 
in  town,  Queen  Mary  pinched  her  lip.  ‘  Does  he  call 
me  Honeypot  ?  Well,  he  shall  find  there  is  wine  in  my 
honey  —  and  perchance  vinegar  too,  if  he  mishandle  me. 
Or  I  may  approve  myself  to  him  honey  of  Hymettus, 
which  has  thyme  in  it,  and  other  sane  herbs  to  make  it 
sharp.’ 

A  honey-queen  she  looked  as  she  spoke,  all  golden  and 
rose  in  her  white  weeds,  her  face  aflower  in  the  close  coif, 
finger  and  thumb  pinching  her  lip.  She  seemed  at  once 
wise,  wholesome,  sweet,  and  tinged  with  mischief ;  even  the 
red  Earl  of  Morton,  the  ‘  bloat  Douglas,’  as  they  called 
him,  who  should  have  been  cunning  in  women,  when  he 
saw  her  preside  at  her  first  Council,  said  to  his  neighbour, 
‘  There  is  wine  in  the  lass,  and  strong  wine,  to  make  men 
drunken.  What  was  Black  James  Stuart  about  to  let  her 
in  among  us  ?  ’  It  was  a  sign  also  of  her  suspected  store 
of  strength  that  Mr.  Knox  was  careful  not  to  see  her. 
He  had  called  her  ‘Honeypot’  on  hearsay. 

No  doubt  she  approved  herself :  those  who  loved  her, 
and,  trembling,  marked  her  goings,  owned  it  to  each  other 
by  secret  signs.  And  yet,  in  these  early  days,  she  stood 
alone,  a  growing  girl  in  a  synod  of  elders,  watching, 
judging,  wondering  about  them,  praying  to  gods  whom 
they  had  abjured  in  a  tongue  wliich  they  had  come  to 
detest.  For  they  were  all  for  England  now,  while  she 

36 


ch.  hi  PROPERTIES  OF  THE  HONEYPOT  37 


clung  the  more  passionately  to  France.  If  she  used 
deceit,  is  it  wonderful  ?  The  arts  of  women  against  those 
half-hundred  pairs  of  grudging,  reticent  eyes ;  a  little 
armoury  of  smiles,  blushes,  demure,  down-drooping  lids ! 
Was  it  the  instinct  to  defend,  or  the  relish  for  cajolery  ? 
She  had  the  art  of  unconscious  art.  She  looked  askance, 
she  let  her  lips  quiver  at  a  harsh  decree,  she  kissed  and 
took  kisses  where  she  could.  She  laughed  for  fear  she 
should  cry,  she  was  witty  when  most  at  a  loss.  She 
refused  to  see  disapproval  in  any,  pretended  to  an  open 
mind,  and  kept  the  inner  door  close-barred.  Never  un¬ 
watched,  she  was  never  found  out ;  never  off  the  watch, 
she  never  let  her  anxiety  be  seen.  Alone  she  did  it.  Not 
Mary  Livingstone  herself  knew  the  half  of  her  effort,  or 
shared  her  moments  of  dismay ;  for  that  whole-hearted 
girl  saw  Scotland  with  Scots  eyes. 

But  she  succeeded  —  she  pleased.  ,The  lords  filled 
Holyroodhouse,  their  companies  the  precincts ;  every  man 
was  Queen  Mary’s  man.  The  city  wrought  at  its  propynes 
and  pageants  against  her  entry  in  state.  Mr.  Knox,  grimly 
surveying  the  company  at  his  board,  called  her  Honeypot. 

There  were  those  of  her  own  religion  who  might  have 
had  another  name  for  her.  One  morning  there  was  a 
fray  after  her  mass,  when  the  Lord  Lindsay  and  a  few  like 
him  hustled  and  beat  a  priest.  They  waited  for  him 
behind  the  screen  and  gave  him,  in  their  phrase,  ‘  a 
bloody  comb.’  Now,  here  was  a  case  for  something  more 
tart  than  honey  —  at  least,  the  clerk  thought  so.  He  had 
come  running  to  her  full  of  his  griefs :  the  holy  vessels 
had  been  tumbled  on  the  floor,  the  holy  vestments  were  in 
shreds ;  he  (the  poor  ministrant)  was  black  and  blue ; 
martyrdom  beckoned  him,  and  so  on. 

‘  Nay,  good  father,  you  shall  not  take  it  amiss,’  she 
had  said  to  him.  ‘  A  greater  than  you  or  I  said  in  a  like 
case,  “  They  blow  not  what  they  do."  ’ 

‘Madam,’  says  the  priest,  ‘there  spake  the  Son  of  God, 
all-discerning,  not  to  be  discerned  of  the  Jews.  But  I 
judge  from  the  feel  of  my  head  what  they  do,  and  I  think 
they  themselves  know  very  well — and  their  master  also 
that  sent  them,  their  Master  Knox.’ 


38 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


*1  will  give  you  another  Scripture,  then,’  replied  she. 
‘  It  is  written,  “  By  our  stripes  we  are  healed ’ 

‘Your  pardon,  madam,  your  pardon!’  cried  the  priest: 
‘  I  read  it  otherwise.  St.  Peter  saith,  “  By  His  stripes  we 
are  healed  ”  —  a  very  different  matter.’ 

She  grew  red.  ‘  Come,  come,  sir,  we  are  bandying 
words.  You  will  not  tell  me  that  you  have  no  need  of 
heavenly  physic,  I  suppose  ?  ’ 

‘  I  pray,’  said  he,  ‘  that  your  Majesty  have  none. 
Madam,  if  it  please  you,  but  for  your  Majesty’s  kindred, 
the  Lord  James  and  his  brethren,  I  had  been  a  dead  man.’ 

‘You  tell  me  the  best  news  of  my  brothers  I  have  had 
yet,’  said  she,  and  sent  him  away. 

She  used  a  gentler  method  with  Lord  Lindsay  when  he 
next  showed  her  his  rugged,  shameless  face.  He  told  her 
bluntly  that  he  would  never  bend  the  knee  to  Baal. 

‘  Well,’  she  said,  with  a  smile,  ‘  you  shall  bend  it  to  me 
instead.’  And  she  looked  so  winning  and  so  young,  and 
withal  so  timid  lest  he  should  refuse,  that  (on  a  sudden 
impulse)  down  he  went  before  her  and  kissed  her  hand. 

‘  I  knew  that  I  could  make  him  ashamed,’  she  said  after¬ 
wards  to  Mary  Livingstone. 

‘  I  would  have  had  him  whipped !  ’  cried  the  flaming 
maid. 

‘You  are  out,  my  dear,’  said  Queen  Mary.  ‘’Twas 
better  he  should  whip  himself.’ 

Although  she  took  enormous  pains,  she  succeeded  not 
nearly  so  well  with  her  bastard  brothers  and  their  sister, 
Lady  Argyll,  the  handsome,  black-browed  woman.  James, 
Robert,  and  John,  sons  of  the  king  her  father,  and  Margaret 
Erskine,  all  alike  tall,  sable,  stiff  and  sullen,  were  alike  in 
this  too,  that  they  were  eager  for  what  they  could  get 
without  asking.  The  old  needy  Hamilton  —  Duke  of 
Chatelherault  as  he  was  —  let  no  day  go  by  without 
begging  for  his  son.  These  men  let  be  seen  what  they 
wanted,  but  they  would  not  ask.  The  vexatious  thing 
with  their  sort  is,  that  you  may  give  a  man  too  much  or 
too  little,  and  never  be  sure  which  of  you  is  the  robber. 
Now,  the  Lord  James  greatly  coveted  the  earldom  of 
Moray.  Would  he  tell  her  so,  think  you?  Not  he,  since 


ch.  iii  PROPERTIES  OF  THE  HONEYPOT  39 


he  would  not  admit  it  to  his  very  self.  She  received  more 
than  a  hint  that  it  would  be  wise  to  reward  him,  and 
told  him  that  she  desired  it.  He  bowed  his  acceptance 
as  if  he  were  obedient  unto  death. 

‘  Madam,  if  it  please  your  Majesty  to  make  me  of  your 
highest  estate,  it  is  not  for  me  to  gainsay  you.’ 

‘Why,  no,’  says  the  Queen,  ‘  I  trow  it  is  not.  You 
shall  be  girt  Earl  of  Mar  at  the  Council,  for  such  I  under¬ 
stand  to  be  your  present  desire.’ 

It  was  not  his  desire  by  any  means,  yet  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  say  so.  Her  very  knowledge  that  he  had 
desires  at  all  tied  his  tongue. 

‘Madam,’  he  said,  sickly-white,  ‘the  grace  is  inordinate 
to  my  merits  :  and,  indeed,  how  should  duty  be  rewarded, 
being  in  its  own  performance  a  grateful  thing  ?  True  it 
is  that  my  lands  lie  farther  to  the  north  than  those  of 
Mar  ;  true  it  is  that  in  Moray  —  to  name  a  case  —  there  are 
forces  which,  maybe,  would  not  be  the  worse  of  a  watchful 
eye.  But  the  earldom  of  Moray!  Tush,  what  am  I 
saying  ?  ’ 

‘  We  spake  of  the  earldom  of  Mar,’  she  said  drily. 
‘That  other,  I  understand,  is  claimed  by  my  Lord  of 
Huntly,  as  a  right  of  his,  under  my  favour.’ 

He  added  nothing,  but  bit  his  lip  sideways,  and  looked 
at  his  white  hands.  She  had  done  more  wisely  to  give 
him  Moray  at  once  ;  and  so  she  might  had  he  but  asked 
for  it.  But  when  she  opened  her  hands  he  shut  his  up, 
and  where  she  spoke  her  mind  he  never  did.  She  ought 
to  have  been  afraid  of  him,  for  two  excellent  reasons : 
first,  she  never  knew  what  he  thought,  and  next,  every¬ 
body  about  her  asked  that  first.  Instead,  he  irritated  her, 
like  a  prickly  shift. 

‘  Am  I  to  knock  for  ever  at  the  shutters  of  the  house  of 
him  ?  ’  she  asked  of  her  friends.  ‘  Not  so,  but  I  shall 
conclude  there  is  nobody  at  home.’ 

Healthy  herself,  and  high-spirited,  and  as  open  as  the 
day  when  she  was  in  earnest,  she  laughed  at  his  secret 
ways  in  private  and  made  light  of  them  in  public.  It  was 
on  the  tip  of  her  saucy  tongue  more  than  once  or  twice  to 
strike  him  to  earth  with  the  thunderbolt :  ‘  Did  you  hasten 


40 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


me  to  Scotland  to  work  my  ruin,  brother  ?  Do  you  reckon 
to  climb  to  the  throne  over  me  ?  ’  She  thought  better  of 
it,  but  only  because  it  seemed  not  worth  her  while.  There 
was  no  give-and-take  with  the  Lord  James,  and  it  is  dull 
work  whipping  a  dead  dog. 

Meantime  the  prediction  of  Mary  Livingstone  seemed 
on  the  edge  of  fulfilment.  Queen  Mary  ruled  Scotland ; 
and  her  spirits  rose  to  meet  success.  She  was  full  of 
courage  and  good  cheer,  holding  her  kingdom  in  the  hol¬ 
low  of  her  palms.  Honeypot  ?  Did  Mr.  Knox  call  her  so  ? 
It  was  odd  how  the  name  struck  her. 

‘  Well,’  she  said,  with  a  shrug,  ‘  if  they  find  me  sweet 
and  hive  about  me,  shall  I  not  do  well  ?  ’ 

She  made  Lethington  Secretary  of  State  without 
reserve,  and  remarked  that  he  was  every  day  in  the  ante¬ 
chamber. 

The  word  flew  busily  up  and  down  the  Canongate, 
round  about  the  Cross :  ‘  Master  Knox  hath  fitted  her 
with  a  name,  do  you  mind?  “She  is  Honeypot,”  quoth 
he.  Heard  you  ever  the  like  o’  that  ?  ’  Some  favoured  it 
and  her,  some  winked  at  it,  some  misfavoured ;  and  these 
were  the  grey  beards  and  white  mutches.  But  one  and 
all  came  out  to  see  her  make  her  entry  on  the  Tuesday. 

One  hour  before  she  left  Holyrood,  Mr.  Knox  preached 
from  his  window  in  the  High  Street  to  a  packed  assembly 
of  blue  bonnets  and  shrouded  heads,  upon  the  text,  Be 
wise  now  therefore ,  O  ye  Kings  —  a  ring  of  scornful  despair 
in  his  accents  making  the  admonition  vain.  ‘  I  shall  not 
ask  ye  now  what  it  is  ye  are  come  out  for  to  see,  lest 
I  tempt  ye  to  lie;  for  I  know  better  than  yourselves. 
Meat !  “  Give  us  meat,”  ye  cry  and  clamour  ;  “  give  us 

meat  for  the  gapes,  meat  for  greedy  eyes  !  ”  Ay,  and  ye 
shall  have  your  meat,  fear  not  for  that.  Jags  and  slashes 
and  feathered  heads,  ye  shall  have ;  targeted  tails,  and 
bosoms  decked  in  shame,  but  else  as  bare  as  my  hand. 
Fill  yourselves  with  the  like  of  these  —  but  oh,  sirs,  when 
ye  lie  drunken,  blame  not  the  kennel  that  holds  ye.  If 
that  ye  crave  to  see  prancing  Frenchmen  before  ye,  minions 
and  jugglers,  leaping  sinners,  damsels  with  timbrels,  and 


ch.  iii  PROPERTIES  OF  THE  HONEYPOT  41 


suchlike  sick  ministers  to  sick  women’s  desires,  I  say,  let 
it  be  so,  o’  God’s  holy  name ;  for  the  day  cometh  when  ye 
shall  have  grace  given  ye  to  look  within,  and  see  who 
pulls  the  wires  that  sets  them  all  heeling  and  reeling, 
jigging  up  and  down  —  whether  Christ  or  Antichrist, 
whether  the  Lord  God  of  Israel  or  the  Lord  Mammon 
of  the  Phoenicians.  Look  ye  well  in  that  day,  judge  ye 
and  see.’ 

He  stopped,  as  if  he  saw  in  their  midst  what  he  cried 
against ;  and  some  man  called  up,  ‘  What  more  will  you 
say,  sir  ?  * 

Mr.  Knox  gathered  himself  together.  ‘Why,  this,  my 
man,  that  the  harlotry  of  old  Babylon  is  not  dead  yet,  but 
like  a  snake  lifteth  a  dry  head  from  the  dust  wherein  you 
think  to  have  crushed  her.  Bite,  snake,  bite,  I  say ;  for 
the  rather  thou  bitest,  the  rather  shall  thy  latter  end  come. 
Heard  ye  not,  sirs,  how  they  trounced  a  bare-polled  priest 
in  the  house  of  Rimmon,  before  the  idol  of  abomination 
herself,  these  two  days  bypast  ?  I  praise  not,  I  blame  not ; 
I  say,  him  that  is  drunken  let  him  be  drunken  still.  More 
becomes  me  not  as  yet,  for  all  is  yet  to  do.  I  fear  to  pre¬ 
judge,  I  fear  to  offend  ;  let  us  walk  warily,  brethren,  until 
the  day  break.  But  I  remember  David,  ruler  in  Israel, 
when  he  hoped  against  hope  and  knew  not  certainly  that 
his  cry  should  go  up  as  far  as  God.  For  no  more  than 
that  chosen  minister  can  I  look  to  see  the  number  of  the 
elect  made  up  from  a  froward  and  stiff-necked  generation. 
Nay,  but  I  can  cry  aloud  in  the  desert,  I  can  fast,  I  can 
watch  for  the  cloud  of  the  gathering  wrath  of  God.  And 
this  shall  be  my  prayer  for  you  and  for  yours,  Be  wise ,  etc! 
He  did  pray  as  he  spoke,  with  his  strong  eyes  lifted  up 
above  the  housetops  —  a  bidding  prayer,  you  may  call  it,  to 
which  the  people’s  answer  rumbled  and  grew  in  strength. 
One  or  two  in  the  street  struck  into  a  savage  song,  and 
soon  the  roar  of  it  filled  the  long  street : 


The  hunter  is  Christ,  that  hunts  in  haste, 
The  hounds  are  Peter  and  Paul ; 

The  Pope  is  the  fox,  Rome  is  the  rocks, 
That  rubs  us  on  the  gall. 


42 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


A  gun  in  the  valley  told  them  that  the  Queen  was  away. 
It  was  well  that  she  was  guarded. 

Des-Essars,  the  Queen’s  French  page,  in  that  curious 
work  of  his,  half  reminiscence  and  half  confession,  which  he 
dubs  Le  Secret  des  Secrets ,  has  a  note  upon  this  day,  and 
the  aspect  of  the  crowd,  which  he  says  was  dangerous. 
‘Looking  up  the  hill,’  he  writes,  ‘towards  the  Netherbow 
Port,  where  we  were  to  stop  for  the  ceremony  of  the  keys, 
I  could  see  that  the  line  of  sightseers  was  uneven,  ever 
surging  and  ebbing  like  an  incoming  sea.  Also  I  had  no 
relish  for  the  faces  I  saw  —  I  speak  not  of  them  at  the 
windows.  Certainly,  all  were  highly  curious  to  see  my 
mistress  and  their  own  ;  and  yet  —  or  so  I  judged  —  they 
found  in  her  and  her  company  food  for  the  eyes  and  none 
for  the  heart.  They  appeared  to  consider  her  their  pro¬ 
perty  ;  would  have  had  her  go  slow,  that  they  might  fill 
themselves  with  her  sight;  or  fast,  that  they  might  judge 
of  her  horsemanship.  We  were  a  show,  forsooth  ;  not  come 
in  to  take  possession  of  our  own  ;  rather  admitted,  that 
these  close-lipped  people  might  possess  us  if  they  found  us 
worthy  —  ah,  or  dispossess  us  if  they  did  not.  Here  and 
there  men  among  them  hailed  their  favourites  :  the  Lord 
James  Stuart  was  received  with  bonnets  in  the  air ;  and  at 
least  once  I  heard  it  said,  “  There  rides  the  true  King  of 
Scots.”  My  Lord  Chancellor  Morton,  riding  immediately 
before  the  Queen’s  Grace,  did  not  disdain  to  bandy  words 
with  them  that  cried  out  upon  him,  “  The  Douglas  !  The 
Douglas  !  ”  He,  looking  round  about,  “Ay,  ye  rascals,”  I 
heard  him  say,  “ye  know  your  masters  fine  when  they 
carry  the  sword.”  He  was  a  very  portly,  hearty  gentleman 
in  those  days,  high-coloured,  with  a  full  round  beard.  But 
above  all  things  in  the  world  the  Scots  lack  fineness  of 
manners.  It  was  not  that  this  Earl  of  Morton  desired  to 
grieve  the  Queen  by  any  freedom  of  his ;  but  worse  than 
that,  to  my  thinking,  he  did  not  know  that  he  did  it.  As 
for  my  lords  her  Majesty’s  uncles,  their  reception  was 
exceedingly  unhappy ;  but  they  cared  little  for  that. 
Foolish  Monsieur  de  Chatelard  made  matters  worse  by 
singing  like  a  boy  in  quire  as  he  rode  behind  his  master, 
Monsieur  d’Amville.  This  he  did,  as  he  said,  to  show  his 


ch.  hi  PROPERTIES  OF  THE  HONEYPOT  43 


contempt  for  the  rabble;  but  all  the  result  was  that  he 
earned  theirs.  I  saw  a  tall,  gaunt,  bearded  man  at  a 
window,  in  a  black  cloak  and  bonnet.  They  told  me  that 
was  Master  Knox,  the  strongest  man  in  Scotland.’ 

It  is  true  that  Master  Knox  watched  the  Queen  go  up, 
with  sharp  eyes  which  missed  nothing.  He  saw  her  eager 
head  turn  this  way  and  that  at  any  chance  of  a  welcome. 
He  saw  her  meet  gladness  with  gladness,  deprecate  doubt, 
plead  for  affection.  ‘  Out  of  the  strong  came  forth  sweet¬ 
ness  :  but  she  is  too  keen  after  sweet  food.’  She  smiled  all 
the  while,  but  with  differences  which  he  was  jealous  to  note. 
‘  She  deals  carefully ;  she  is  no  so  sure  of  her  ground.  Eh, 
man,  she  goes  warily  to  work.’ 

A  child  at  a  window  leaped  in  arms  and  called  out 
clearly:  ‘Oh,  mother,  mother,  the  braw  leddy !  ’  The 
Queen  laughed  outright,  looked  up,  nodded,  and  kissed 
her  hand. 

‘  Hoots,  woman,’  grumbled  Mr.  Knox,  ‘  how  ye  lick  your 
fingers  !  Fie,  what  a  sweet  tooth  ye  have  !  ’ 

She  was  very  happy,  had  no  doubts  but  that,  as  she  won 
the  Keys  of  the  Port,  she  should  win  the  hearts  of  all  these 
people.  Stooping  down,  she  let  the  Provost  kiss  her  hand. 
‘  The  sun  comes  in  with  me,  tell  the  Provost,’  she  said  to 
Mr.  Secretary,  not  trusting  her  Scots. 

‘Madam,  so  please  you,’  the  good  man  replied,  clearing 
his  throat,  ‘  we  shall  make  a  braver  show  for  your  Grace’s 
contentation  upon  the  coming  out  from  dinner.  Rehearse 
that  to  her  Majesty,  Lethington,  I’ll  trouble  ye.’ 

‘  Ah,  Mr.  Provost,  we  shall  all  make  a  better  show  then, 
trust  me,’  she  said,  laughing ;  and  rode  quickly  through 
the  gate. 

She  was  very  bold  :  everybody  said  that.  She  had  the 
manners  of  a  boy  —  his  quick  rush  of  words,  his  impulse, 
and  his  dashing  assurance  —  with  that  same  backwash  of 
timidity,  the  sudden  wonder  of  ‘Have  I  gone  too  far  — 
betrayed  myself  ’  which  flushes  a  boy  hot  in  a  minute. 
All  could  see  how  bold  she  was ;  but  not  all  knew  how  the 
heart  beat.  It  made  for  her  harm  that  her  merits  were  shy 
things.  I  find  that  she  was  dressed  for  the  day  in  ‘a  stiff 
white  satin  gown  sewn  all  over  with  pearls.’  Her  neck 


44 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


was  bare  to  the  cleft  of  the  bosom  ;  and  her  tawny  brown 
hair,  curled  and  towered  upon  her  head,  was  crowned  with 
diamonds.  Des-Essars  says  that  her  eyes  were  like  stars ; 
but  he  is  partial.  There  were  many  girls  in  Scotland  fairer 
than  she.  Mary  Fleming  was  one,  a  very  gentle,  modest 
lady ;  Mary  Seton  was  another,  sharp  and  pure  as  a  profile 
on  a  coin  of  Sicily.  Mary  Livingstone  bore  herself  like  a 
goddess;  Mary  Beaton  had  a  riper  lip.  But  this  Mary 
Stuart  stung  the  eyes,  and  provoked  by  flashing  contrasts. 
Queen  of  Scots  and  Dryad  of  the  wood ;  all  honey  and 
wine ;  bold  as  a  boy  and  as  lightly  abashed,  clinging  as  a 
girl  and  as  slow  to  leave  hold,  full  of  courage,  very  wise. 
‘  Sirs,  a  dangerous  sweet  woman.  Here  we  have  the 
Honeypot,’  says  Mr.  Knox  to  himself,  and  thought  of 
her  at  night. 

After  dinner,  as  she  came  down  the  hill,  they  gave  her 
pageants.  Virgins  in  white  dropped  out  of  machines  with 
crowns  for  her;  blackamoors,  Turks,  savage  men  came 
about  her  with  songs  about  the  Scriptures  and  the  fate  of 
Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abiram.  She  understood  some,  and 
laughed  pleasantly  at  all.  Even  she  took  not  amiss  the 
unmannerly  hint  of  the  Lawn  Market,  where  they  would 
have  burned  a  mass-priest  in  effigy  —  had  him  swinging 
over  the  faggots,  chalice  and  vestment,  crucifix  and  all. 
‘Fie,  sirs,  fie!  What  harm  has  he  done,  poor  soul?’  was 
all  she  said. 

The  Grand  Prior  was  furiously  angry ;  seeing  which, 
the  Earl  of  Morton  cut  the  figure  down,  and  then  struck 
out  savagely  with  the  flat  of  his  blade,  spurring  his  horse 
into  the  sniggering  mob.  ‘  Damn  you,  have  done  with 
your  beastliness  —  down,  dogs,  down!’  The  Lord  James 
looked  away. 

At  the  Salt  Tron  they  had  built  up  a  door,  with  a  glory 
as  of  heaven  upon  it.  Here  she  dismounted  and  sat  for  a 
while.  Clouds  above  drew  apart ;  a  pretty  boy  in  a  gilt 
tunic  was  let  down  by  ropes  before  her.  He  said  a  piece 
in  gasps,  then  offered  her  the  Psalter  in  rhymed  Scots. 
She  thought  it  was  the  Geneva  Bible,  and  took  it  with  a 
queer  lift  of  the  eyebrows,  which  all  saw.  Arthur  Erskine, 
to  whom  she  handed  it,  held  it  between  finger  and  thumb 


ch.  hi  PROPERTIES  OF  THE  HONEYPOT  45 


as  if  it  had  been  red  hot ;  and  men  marked  that,  and 
nudged  each  other.  The  boy  stood  rigid,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  do ;  quickly  she  turned,  looked  at  him  shyly 
for  a  moment,  then  leaned  forward  and  took  him  up  in  her 
arms,  put  her  cheek  to  his,  cuddled  and  kissed  him.  ‘  You 
spake  up  bravely,  my  lamb,’  she  said.  ‘  And  what  may 
your  name  be  ?  ’  She  had  to  look  up  to  Lethington  for 
his  reply,  but  did  not  let  go  of  the  child.  His  name  was 
Ninian  Ross.  ‘  I  would  I  had  one  like  you,  Ninian  Ross  !  ’ 
she  cried  in  his  own  tongue,  kissed  him  again,  and  let  him 

go- 

People  said  to  each  other,  ‘  She  loves  too  much,  she  is 
too  free  of  her  loving  —  to  kiss  and  dandle  a  bairn  in  the 
street.’ 

‘  Honeypot,  Honeypot !  ’  said  grudging  Mr.  Knox, 
looking  on  rapt  at  all  this. 

Des-Essars  writes  :  ‘  She  believed  she  had  won  the  entry 
of  the  heart ;  she  read  in  the  castle  guns,  bells  of  steeples, 
and  hoarse  outcry  of  the  crowd,  assurance  of  what  she 
hoped  for.  I  was  glad,  for  my  part,  and  disposed  to  thank 
God  heartily,  that  we  reached  Holyroodhouse  without 
injury  to  her  person  or  insult  to  cut  her  to  the  soul.’ 

I  think  Des-Essars  too  sensitive :  she  was  fully  as 
shrewd  an  observer  as  he  could  have  been.  At  least,  she 
returned  in  good  spirits.  If  any  were  tired,  she  was  not ; 
but  danced  all  night  with  her  Frenchmen.  Monsieur  de 
Chatelard  was  a  happy  man  when  he  had  her  in  his  arms. 

‘  Misericorde  —  O  Queen  of  Love  !  Thus  I  would  go 
through  the  world,  though  I  burned  in  hell  for  it  after.’ 

‘  Thus  would  not  I,’  quoth  she.  ‘  You  are  hurting  me. 
Take  care.’ 

They  brought  her  news  in  the  midst  that  the  Earl  of 
Bothwell  was  in  town  with  a  great  company,  and  would 
kiss  her  hands  in  the  morning  if  he  might. 

‘  Let  him  come  to  me  now  while  I  am  happy,’  she  said. 
‘  Who  knows  what  to-morrow  may  do  for  me  ?  ’ 

She  sent  away  Chatelard,  and  waited.  Soon  enough 
she  saw  the  Earl’s  broad  shoulders  making  a  way,  the 
daring  eyes,  the  hardy  mouth.  ‘You  are  welcome,  my 
lord,  to  Scotland.’ 


46 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


*  But  am  I  welcome  to  your  Majesty  ?  ’ 

‘  You  have  been  slow  to  seek  my  welcome,  sir.’ 

1  Madam,  I  have  been  slow  to  believe  it.’ 

‘You  need  faith,  Monsieur  de  Boduel.’ 

‘  I  wish  that  your  Majesty  did  !  ’ 

‘  Why  so  ?  ’ 

‘That  your  Majesty  might  partake  of  mine.’ 

They  chopped  words  for  half  an  hour  or  more.  But  she 
had  her  match  in  him. 

She  was  friends  with  all  the  world  that  night,  or  tried 
to  think  so.  Yet,  at  the  going  to  bed,  when  the  lights 
were  out,  the  guards  posted,  and  state-rooms  empty  save 
for  the  mice,  she  came  up  to  Mary  Livingstone  and  stroked 
her  face  without  a  word,  coaxing  for  assurance  of  her 
triumph.  Wanting  it  still  —  for  the  maid  was  glum  — she 
supplied  it  for  herself.  ‘  We  rule  all  Scotland,  my  dear, 
we  rule  all  Scotland  !  ’ 

But  Mary  Livingstone  held  up  her  chin,  to  be  out  of 
reach  of  that  wheedling  hand.  Coldly,  or  as  coldly  as 
she  might,  she  looked  at  the  eager  face,  and  braved  the 
glimmering  eyes. 

‘Ay,’  she  said,  ‘ay,  you  do.  You  and  John  Knox 
betwixt  you.’ 

The  Queen  laughed.  ‘  Shall  I  marry  Mr.  Knox  ?  He 
is  twice  a  widower.’ 

‘  He  would  wed  you  the  morn’s  morn  if  you  would  have 
him,’  says  Livingstone.  ‘  ’Tis  a  fed  horse,  that  Knox.’ 

‘  He  feeds  on  wind,  I  think,’  the  Queen  said ;  and  the 
maid  snorted,  implacable. 

‘  ’Tis  a  better  food  than  your  Earl  of  Bothwell  takes,  to 
my  mind.’ 

‘  And  what  is  his  food  ?  ’ 

‘  The  blood  of  women  and  their  tears,’  said  Mary 
Livingstone. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ROUGH  MUSIC  HERE 

The  Earl  of  Huntly  came  to  town,  with  three  tall  sons, 
three  hundred  Gordons,  and  his  pipers  at  quickstep  before 
him,  playing,  ‘Cock  o’  the  North.’  He  came  to  seek  the 
earldom  of  Moray,  a  Queen’s  hand  for  his  son  George,  and 
to  set  the  realm’s  affairs  on  a  proper  footing ;  let  Mr.  Knox 
and  his  men,  therefore,  look  to  themselves.  His  three  sons 
were  George,  John,  and  Adam.  George,  his  eldest,  was 
Lord  Gordon,  with  undoubted  birthrights  ;  but  John  of  Find- 
later,  so  called,  was  his  dearest,  and  should  have  married 
the  Queen  if  he  had  not  been  burdened  with  a  stolen 
wife  in  a  tower,  whom  he  would  not  put  out  of  his  head 
while  her  husband  was  alive.  So  George  must  have  the 
Queen,  said  Huntly.  That  once  decided,  his  line  was  clear. 
‘  Madam,  my  cousin,’  he  intended  to  say,  ‘  I  give  you  all 
Scotland  above  the  Highland  line  in  exchange  for  your 
light  hand  upon  the  South.  Straighter  lad  or  cleanlier 
built  will  no  maid  have  in  the  country,  nor  appanage  so 
broad.  Is  it  a  match  ?  ’  Should  it  not  be  a  match,  indeed  ? 
Both  Catholics,  both  sovereign  rulers,  both  young,  both 
fine  imps.  If  she  traced  her  descent  from  Malcolm  Can- 
more,  he  got  his  from  Gadiffer,  who,  as  every  one  knows, 
was  the  brother  of  Perceforest,  whose  right  name  was  Betis, 
whose  ancestor  was  Brutus’  self,  whose  root  was  fast  in 
Laomedon,  King  of  Troy.  ‘The  boy  and  girl  were  born 
for  each  other,’  said  Huntly.  So  he  crossed  the  Forth  at 
Stirling  Brig,  and  marched  down  through  the  green  low¬ 
land  country  like  a  king,  with  colours  to  the  wind  and  the 

47 


48 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


pipes  screaming  his  hopes  and  degree  in  the  world.  But 
he  came  slowly  because  of  his  unwieldy  size.  He  was 
exceedingly  fat,  white-haired  and  white-bearded,  and  had 
a  high-coloured,  windy,  passionate  face,  flaming  blue  eyes, 
and  a  husky  voice,  worn  by  shrieking  at  his  Gordons. 
Such  was  the  old  Earl  of  Huntly,  the  star  of  whose  house 
was  destined  to  make  fatal  conjunctions  with  Queen  Mary’s. 

His  entry  into  Edinburgh  began  at  the  same  rate  of 
pomp,  but  ended  in  the  screaming  of  men  whose  pipes 
were  slit.  There  were  Hamiltons  in  the  city,  Hepburns, 
Murrays,  Keiths,  Douglases,  red-haired  Campbells.  The 
close  wynds  vomited  armed  men  at  every  interchange  of 
civilities  on  the  cawsey ;  a  match  to  the  death  could  be 
seen  at  any  hour  in  the  tilt-yard ;  the  chiefs  stalked  grandly 
up  and  down  before  their  enemies’  houses,  daring  one 
another  do  their  worst.  It  seemed  that  only  Huntly  and 
his  Gordons  had  been  wanting  to  set  half  Scotland  by  the 
ears.  The  very  night  of  their  incoming  young  John  of 
Findlater  spied  his  enemy  Ogilvy  —  the  husband  of  the 
stolen  wife  —  walking  down  the  Luckenbooths  arm-in-arm 
with  his  kinsman  Boyne.  He  stepped  up  in  front  of  him, 
lithe  as  an  otter,  and  says  he,  ‘  Have  I  timed  my  coming 
well,  Mr.  Ogilvy  ?  ’  Ogilvy,  desperate  of  his  wife,  may  be 
excused  for  drawing  upon  him  ;  and  (the  fray  once  begun) 
you  cannot  blame  John  Gordon  of  Findlater  for  killing  him 
clean,  or  Ogilvy  of  Boyne  for  wounding  John  of  Findlater. 
Hurt  as  he  was,  the  young  man  was  saved  by  his  friends. 
Little  he  cared  for  the  summons  of  slaughter  sued  out 
against  him  in  the  morning,  with  his  enemy  dead  and  three 
hundred  Gordons  to  keep  his  doors. 

The  Earl  his  father  treated  the  affair  as  so  much  thistle¬ 
down  thickening  the  wind  ;  but  his  own  performances  were 
as  exorbitant  as  his  proposals.  He  quarrelled  with  the 
high  Lord  James  Stuart  about  precedence.  Flicking  his 
glove  in  the  sour  face,  ‘  Hoots,  my  lord,  you  are  too  new 
an  Earl  to  take  the  gate  of  me,’  he  said.  He  assumed  the 
title  of  Moray  —  which  was  what  he  had  come  to  beg  for  — 
in  addition  to  his  own.  ‘  She  dare  not  refuse  me,  man.  It 
is  well  known  I  have  the  lands.’  The  Lord  James  turned 
stately  away  at  this  hearing,  and  Huntly  ruffled  past  him 


CH.  IV 


ROUGH  MUSIC  HERE 


49 


into  the  presence,  muttering  as  he  went,  ‘A  king’s  mis¬ 
chance,  my  sakes !  ’  He  had  a  fine  command  of  scornful 
nicknames ;  that  was  one  of  them.  He  called  Mr.  Secre¬ 
tary  Lethington  the  Grey  Goose  —  no  bad  name  for  a 
tried  gentleman  whose  tone  was  always  symptomatic  of 
his  anxieties.  The  Earl  of  Bothwell  was  a  ‘Jack-Earl,’  he 
said ;  but  Bothwell  laughed  at  him.  The  Duke  and  his 
Hamiltons  were  ‘  Glasgow  tinklers  ’ ;  the  Earl  of  Morton, 

‘  Flesher  Morton.’  His  pride,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  of 
that  inordinate  sort  which  will  not  allow  a  man  to  hate  his 
equals.  He  hated  whole  races  of  less-descended  men  ;  he 
hated  burgesses,  Forbeses,  Frenchmen,  Englishmen;  but 
his  peers  he  despised.  Catholic  as  he  was,  he  went  to  the 
preaching  at  Saint  Giles’  in  a  great  red  cloak,  wearing  his 
hat,  and  stood  apart,  clacking  with  his  tongue,  while  Mr. 
Knox  thundered  out  prophecies.  ‘  Let  yon  bubbly-jock 
bide,’  he  told  his  son,  who  was  with  him.  ‘  ’Tis  a  congested 
rogue,  full  of  bad  wind.  What !  Give  him  vent,  man,  and 
see  him  poison  the  whole  assembly.’  Mr.  Knox  denounced 
him  to  his  face  as  a  Prophet  of  the  Grove,  and  bid  him  cry 
upon  his  painted  goddess.  The  great  Huntly  tapped  his 
nose,  then  the  basket  of  his  sword,  and  presently  strode 
out  of  church  by  a  way  which  his  people  made  for  him. 

Queen  Mary  was  amused  with  the  large,  boisterous, 
florid  man,  and  very  much  admired  his  sons.  They  were 
taller  than  the  generality  of  Scots,  sanguine,  black-haired, 
small-headed,  with  the  intent  far  gaze  in  their  grey  eyes 
which  hawks  have,  and  all  dwellers  in  the  open.  She  saw 
but  two  of  them,  the  eldest  and  the  youngest  —  for  John  of 
Findlater,  having  slain  his  man,  lay  at  home  —  and  set  her¬ 
self  to  work  to  break  down  their  shy  respect.  For  their 
sakes  she  humoured  their  preposterous  father;  allowed, 
what  all  her  court  was  at  swords  drawn  against,  that  his 
pipers  should  play  him  into  her  presence ;  listened  to  what 
he  had  to  say  about  Gadiffer,  brother  of  Perceforest,  about 
Knox  and  his  ravings,  about  the  loyal  North.  He  expanded 
like  a  warmed  bladder,  exhibited  his  sons’  graces  as  if  he 
were  a  horsedealer,  openly  hinted  at  his  proposals  in  her 
regard.  She  needed  none  of  his  nods  and  winks,  being 
perfectly  well  able  to  read  him,  and  of  judgment  perfectly 


50 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


clear  upon  the  inflated  text.  In  private  she  laughed  it 
away.  ‘  I  think  my  Lord  of  Gordon  a  very  proper  gentle¬ 
man,’  she  said  to  Livingstone;  ‘but  am  I  to  marry  the  first 
long  pair  of  legs  I  meet  with  ?  Moreover,  I  should  have  to 
woo  him,  for  he  fears  me  more  than  the  devil.  Yet  it  is  a 
comely  young  man.  I  believe  him  honest.’ 

‘  The  only  Gordon  to  be  so,  then,’  said  Livingstone 
tersely.  This  was  the  prevailing  belief  :  ‘  False  as  Gordon.’ 

Then  came  Ogilvy  of  Boyne  and  his  friends  before 
the  council,  demanding  the  forfeiture  of  John  Gordon  of 
Findlater  for  slaughter.  Old  Huntly  pished  and  fumed. 
‘What !  For  pecking  the  feathers  out  of  a  daw  !  My  fine 
little  man,  you  and  your  Ogilvys  should  keep  within  your 
own  march.  You  meet  with  men  on  the  highways.’  The 
young  Queen,  isolated  on  her  throne  above  these  angry 
men,  looked  from  one  to  another  faltering.  Suddenly  she 
found  that  she  could  count  certainly  upon  nobody.  Her 
brother  James  had  kept  away;  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  was 
not  present;  my  Lord  Morton  the  Chancellor  blinked  a  pair 
of  sleepy  eyes  upon  the  scene  at  large.  ‘  Let  the  law  take 
its  course,’  she  faintly  said  ;  and  old  Huntly  left  the  cham¬ 
ber,  sweeping  the  Ogilvys  out  of  his  road.  That  was  no 
way  to  get  the  Earldom  of  Moray  and  a  royal  daughter- 
in-law  into  one’s  family.  He  himself  confessed  that  the 
time  had  come  for  serious  talk  with  the  Queen. 

Even  this  she  bore,  knowing  him  Catholic  and  believing 
him  honest.  When,  after  some  purparley,  at  a  privy 
audience,  he  came  to  what  he  called  ‘  close  quarters,’ 
and  spoke  his  piece  about  holy  church,  sovereign  rulers, 
and  fine  imps,  she  laughed  still,  it  is  true,  but  more 
shrewdly  than  before.  ‘  Not  too  fast,  my  good  lord,  not 
too  fast.  I  approve  of  my  Lord  Gordon,  and  should  come 
thankfully  to  his  wedding.  Yet  I  should  be  content  with 
a  lowlier  office  there  than  you  seem  to  propose  me.  And 
if  he  come  to  my  wedding,  I  hope  he  will  bring  his  lady.’ 
She  turned  to  the  Secretary.  ‘  Tell  my  lord,  Mr.  Secretary, 
what  other  work  is  afoot.’ 

Hereupon  Lethington  enlarged  upon  royal  marriages, 
their  nature  and  scope,  and  flourished  styles  and  titles 
before  the  mortified  old  man.  He  spoke  of  the  Archduke 


CH.  IV 


ROUGH  MUSIC  HERE 


5l 


Ferdinand,  that  son  of  Caesar ;  of  Charles  the  Most 
Christian  King,  a  boy  in  years,  but  a  very  forward  boy. 
He  dwelt  freely  and  at  length  upon  King  Philip’s  son  of 
Spain,  Don  Carlos,  a  magnificent  young  man.  Mostly  he 
spoke  of  the  advantage  there  would  be  if  his  royal  mistress 
should  please  to  walk  hand  in  hand  with  her  sister  of 
England  in  this  affair.  Surely  that  were  a  lovely  vision ! 
The  hearts  of  two  realms  would  be  pricked  to  tears  by  the 
spectacle  —  two  great  and  ancient  thrones,  each  stained 
with  the  blood  of  the  other,  flowering  now  with  two  roses, 
the  red  and  the  white !  The  blood-stains  all  washed  out 
by  happy  tears  —  ah,  my  good  lord,  and  by  the  kisses  of 
innocent  lips !  It  were  a  perilous  thing,  it  were  an  un¬ 
warrantable  thing,  for  one  to  move  without  the  other. 
‘  I  speak  thus  freely,  my  Lord  of  Huntly,’  says  Lethington, 
warming  to  the  work,  ‘  that  ye  may  see  the  whole  mind  of 
my  mistress,  her  carefulness,  and  how  large  a  field  her  new- 
scaled  eyes  must  take  in.  This  is  not  a  business  of  knitting 
North  to  South.  She  may  trust  always  to  the  affection  of 
her  subjects  to  tie  so  natural  a  bond.  Nay,  but  the  com¬ 
forting  of  kingdoms  is  at  issue  here.  Ponder  this  well,  my 
lord,  and  you  will  see.’ 

The  Earl  of  Huntly  was  crimson  in  the  face.  *  I  do  see, 
madam,  how  it  is,  that  my  house  shall  have  little  tender¬ 
ness  from  your  Majesty’s’ — he  was  very  angry.  ‘I  see 
that  community  of  honour,  community  of  religion  count 
for  nothing.  Foh  !  My  life  and  death  upon  it !  ’  He 
puffed  and  blew,  glaring  about  him ;  then  burst  out  again. 
‘  I  will  pay  my  thanks  for  this  where  they  are  most  due. 
I  know  the  doer —  I  spit  upon  his  deed.  Who  is  that  man 
that  cometh  creeping  after  my  earldom  ?  Who  looketh 
aslant  at  all  my  designs  ?  Base  blood  stirreth  base  work. 
Who  seeketh  the  life  of  my  fine  son  ?  ’ 

The  Queen  flushed.  ‘  Stay,  sir,’  she  said,  ‘  I  cannot 
hear  you.  You  waste  words  and  honour  alike.’ 

He  shook  his  head  at  her,  as  if  she  were  a  naughty 
child  ;  raised  his  forefinger,  almost  threatened.  4  Madam, 
madam,  your  brother  James - ’ 

She  got  up,  the  fire  throbbing  in  her.  *  Be  silent,  my 
lord !  ’ 


52 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


‘  Madam - ’ 

‘  Be  silent.’ 

‘  But,  madam - ’ 

Lethington,  much  agitated,  whispered  in  her  ear ;  she 
shook  him  away,  stamped,  clenched  her  hands. 

‘You  are  dismissed,  sir.  The  audience  is  finished.  Do 
you  hear  me  ?  ’ 

‘  How  finished  ?  How  finished  ?  ’ 

‘  Go,  go,  my  lord,  for  God’s  sake !  ’  urged  the  Secretary. 

‘A  pest !  ’  cried  he,  and  fumed  out  of  the  Castle. 

She  rode  down  the  Canongate  to  dinner  that  day  at 
a  hand-gallop,  the  people  scouring  to  right  and  left  to  be 
clear  of  heels.  Her  colour  was  bright  and  hot,  her  hair 
streamed  to  the  wind.  ‘  Fly,  fly,  fly  !  ’  she  cried,  and 
whipped  her  horse.  ‘  A  hateful  fool,  to  dare  me  so !  ’ 
Lethington,  Argyll,  James  her  brother,  came  clattering 
and  pounding  behind.  ‘  She  is  fey !  She  is  fey !  She 
rides  like  a  witch!’  women  said  to  one  another;  but  Mr. 
Knox,  who  saw  her  go,  said  to  himself,  ‘  She  is  nimble  as 
a  boy.’  Publicly  —  since  this  wild  bout  made  a  great  com¬ 
motion  in  men’s  thoughts  —  he  declared,  ‘If  there  be  not 
in  her  a  proud  mind,  a  crafty  wit,  and  an  indurate  heart 
against  God  and  His  truth,  my  judgment  faileth  me.’ 
Neither  he  nor  his  judgments  were  anything  to  her  in 
those  days ;  she  heard  little  of  his  music,  rough  or  not. 
And  yet,  just  at  that  time,  had  she  sent  for  him  she  could 
have  won  him  for  ever.  ‘  Happy  for  her,’  says  Des-Essars, 
writing  after  the  event,  ‘  thrice  happy  for  her  if  she  had ! 
For  I  know  very  well  —  and  she  knew  it  also  afterwards  — 
that  the  man  was  in  love  with  her.’ 

At  night,  having  recovered  herself,  she  was  able  to 
laugh  with  the  maids  at  old  Huntly,  and  to  look  with  kind 
eyes  upon  the  graces  of  his  son  Gordon. 

‘  If  I  cared  to  do  it,’  she  said,  ‘  I  could  have  that  young 
man  at  my  feet.  But  I  fear  he  is  a  fool  like  his  father.’ 

She  tried  him:  he  danced  stiffly,  talked  no  French,  and 
did  not  know  what  to  do  with  her  hand  when  he  had  it, 
or  with  his  own  either.  She  sparkled,  she  glittered  before 
him,  smiled  at  his  confusion,  encouraged  him  by  softness, 
befooled  him.  It  was  plain  that  he  was  elated ;  but  she 


CH.  IV 


ROUGH  MUSIC  HERE 


53 


held  her  own  powers  so  lightly,  and  thought  so  little  of 
his,  that  she  had  no  notion  of  what  she  was  doing  —  to 
what  soaring  heights  she  was  sending  him.  When  she 
had  done  with  him,  a  strange  tremor  took  the  young  lord 
—  a  fixed,  hard  look,  as  if  he  saw  something  through  the 
wall. 

‘  What  you  see  ?  What  you  fear,  my  lord  ?  ’  she  stam¬ 
mered  in  her  pretty  Scots. 

‘  I  see  misfortune,  and  shame,  and  loss.  I  see  women  at 
the  loom  —  a  shroud  for  a  man  —  hey,  a  shroud,  a  shroud !  ’ 
He  stared  about  at  all  the  company,  and  at  her,  knowing 
nobody.  Slowly  recovering  himself,  he  seemed  to  scrape 
cobwebs  from  his  face.  ‘  I  have  drunk  knowledge  this 
night,  I  think.’ 

She  plumbed  the  depth  of  his  case.  ‘  Go  now,  my  lord ; 
leave  me,  now.’ 

‘  One  last  word  to  you,  madam,  with  my  face  to  your 
face.’ 

‘  What  would  you  say  to  me  ?  ’ 

He  took  her  by  the  hand,  with  more  strength  than  she 
had  believed  in  him.  ‘Trust  Gordon,’  he  said,  and  left 
her. 

‘  I  shall  believe  your  word,’  she  called  softly  after  him, 
‘  and  remember  it.’ 

He  lifted  his  hand,  but  made  no  other  sign ;  he  carried 
a  high  head  through  the  full  hall,  striding  like  a  man 
through  heather,  not  to  be  stopped  by  any. 

She  thought  that  she  had  never  seen  a  prouder  action. 
He  went,  carrying  his  devotion,  like  a  flag  into  battle. 
Beside  him  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  looked  a  pirate,  and 
Chatelherault  a  pantaloon. 

‘  He  deserves  a  fair  wife,  for  he  would  pleasure  her  well,’ 
she  considered ;  then  laughed  softly  to  herself,  and  shook 
her  head.  ‘  No,  no,  not  for  me  —  such  a  dreamer  as  that. 
I  should  direct  his  dreams  —  I,  who  need  a  man.’ 

That  pirate  Earl  of  Bothwell  used  a  different  way.  He 
bowed  before  her  the  same  night,  straightened  his  back 
immediately,  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  No  fear 
that  this  man  would  peer  through  walls  for  ghosts ! 
She  was  still  tender  from  the  thoughts  of  her  young  High- 


54 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


lander ;  but  you  know  that  she  trusted  this  bluff  ally,  and 
was  not  easily  offended  by  honest  freedoms.  She  had 
seen  gallants  of  his  stamp  in  France. 

‘  Pleasure  and  good  answers  to  your  Grace’s  good  de¬ 
sires,’  he  laughed. 

She  looked  wisely  up  at  him,  keeping  her  mouth 
demure. 

‘  Monsieur  de  Boduel,  you  shall  lead  me  to  dance  if  you 
will.’ 

‘  Madam,  I  shall.’  He  took  her  out  with  no  more  cere¬ 
mony,  and  acquitted  himself  gaily :  a  good  dancer,  and 
very  strong,  as  she  had  already  discovered.  What  arms 
to  uphold  authority !  What  nerve  to  drive  our  rebels  into 
church  !  Ah,  if  one  need  a  man  !  .  .  . 

She  asked  him  questions  boldly.  ‘  What  think  you,  my 
lord,  of  the  Earl  of  Huntly?’ 

‘  Madam,  a  bladder,  holding  a  few  pease.  Eh,  and  he 
rattles  when  you  do  shake  him !  Prick  him,  he  is  gone ; 
but  the  birds  will  flock  about  for  the  seeds  you  scatter. 
They  are  safer  where  they  lie  covered,  I  consider.’ 

She  followed  this.  ‘  I  would  ask  you  further.  There 
is  here  a  remarkable  Mr.  Knox :  what  am  I  to  think  of 
him  ?  ’ 

He  stayed  awhile,  stroking  his  beard,  before  he  shrugged 
in  the  French  manner,  that  is,  with  the  head  and  eyebrow. 

‘  In  Rome,  madam,  we  doff  caps  to  the  Pope.  I  am 
friendly  with  Mr.  Knox.  He  is  a  strong  man.’ 

‘  As  Samson  was  of  old  ?  ’ 

He  laughed  freely.  ‘  Oh,  my  faith,  madam,  Delilah  is 
not  awanting.  There’s  a  many  and  many.’ 

She  changed  the  subject.  ‘They  tell  me  that  you  are 
of  the  religion,  Monsieur  de  Boduel,  but  I  am  slow  to 
believe  that.  In  France  I  remember - ’ 

‘  Madam,’  says  he,  ‘  my  religion  is  one  thing,  my  philo¬ 
sophy  another.  Let  us  talk  of  the  latter.  There  is  one 
God  in  a  great  cloud ;  but  the  world,  observe,  is  many- 
sided.  Sometimes,  therefore,  the  cloud  is  rent  towards  the 
south ;  and  the  men  of  the  south  say,  “  Behold !  our  God 
is  hued  like  a  fire.”  Or  if,  looking  up,  they  see  the  sun 
pale  in  a  fog,  with  high  faith  they  say  one  to  another, 


CH.  IV 


ROUGH  MUSIC  HERE 


55 


“  Yonder  white  disc,  do  you  mark,  that  is  the  Son  of  God.” 
Sometimes  also  your  cloud  is  parted  towards  the  north. 
Then  cry  the  men  of  those  parts,  “  Lo  !  our  God,  like  a 
snow-mountain!”  Now,  when  I  am  in  the  south  I  see 
with  the  men  of  the  south,  for  I  cannot  doubt  all  the 
dwellers  in  the  land ;  but  when  I  am  in  the  north,  likewise 
I  say,  There  is  something  in  what  you  report.  So  much 
for  philosophy — to  which  Religion,  with  a  rod  in  hand,  cries 
out:  “You  fool,  you  fool!  God  is  neither  there  nor  here; 
but  He  is  in  the  heart.”  There  you  have  it,  madam.’ 

She  bowed  gravely.  ‘  I  have  heard  the  late  king,  my 
father-in-law,  say  the  same  to  Madame  de  Valentinois ; 
and  she  agreed  with  him,  as  she  always  did  in  such  matters. 
It  is  a  good  thought.  But  in  whose  heart  do  you  place 
God  ?  Not  in  all  ?  ’ 

‘  In  a  good  heart,  madam.  In  a  crowned  heart.’ 

‘The  crowned  heart,’  said  she,  ‘is  the  Douglas  badge. 
Do  you  place  Him  then  in  the  heart  of  Monsieur  de 
Morton  ?  ’ 

This  tickled  him,  but  he  felt  it  also  monstrous.  ‘  God 
forbid  me!  No,  no,  madam.  Douglas  wears  it  abroad  — 
not  always  with  credit.  But  the  crowned  heart  was  the 
heart  of  the  Bruce.’ 

She  was  pleased ;  the  sudden  turn  warmed  her.  ‘  You 
spoke  that  well,  and  like  a  courtier,  my  lord.’ 

‘  Madam,’  he  cried,  covering  his  own  heart,  ‘that  is  what 
I  would  always  do  if  I  had  the  wit.  For  I  am  a  courtier 
at  this  hour.’ 

Pondering  this  in  silence,  she  suffered  him  to  lead  her 
where  he  would ;  and  took  snugly  to  bed  with  her  the 
thought  that,  in  her  growing  perplexities,  she  had  a  sure 
hand  upon  hers  when  she  chose  to  call  for  it. 

As  for  him,  Bothwell,  he  must  have  gone  directly  from 
this  adventure  in  the  tender  to  play  his  bass  in  some  of 
the  roughest  music  of  those  days.  That  very  night — -and 
for  the  third  time — he,  with  D’Elboeuf  and  Lord  John 
Stuart,  went  in  arms,  with  men  and  torches,  to  Cuthbert 
Ramsay’s  house,  hard  by  the  Market  Cross ;  and,  being 
refused  as  before,  this  time  made  forceful  entry. 


56 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


To  the  gudeman’s  ‘What  would  ye  with  me,  sirs,  good 
lack  ?  ’  they  demanded  sight  of  Alison,  his  handsome 
daughter,  now  quaking  in  her  bed  by  her  man’s  side  ;  and 
not  sight  only,  but  a  kiss  apiece  for  the  sake  of  my  Lord 
Arran.  She  was,  by  common  report,  that  lord’s  mistress  — 
but  the  fact  is  immaterial. 

‘Come  down  with  me,  man  —  stand  by  me  in  this  hour,’ 
quoth  she. 

But  her  husband  plainly  refused  to  come.  ‘  Na,  na,  my 
woman,  thou  must  thole  the  assize  by  thysel’,’  said  the 
honest  fellow. 

She  donned  her  bedgown,  tied  up  her  hair,  and  was 
brought  down  shamefast  by  her  father. 

‘  Do  me  no  harm,  sirs,  do  me  no  harm  !  ’ 

‘  Less  than  your  braw  Lord  of  Arran,’  says  Bothwell, 
and  took  the  firstfruits. 

The  low-roofed  parlour  full  of  the  smoke  of  torches, 
flaring  lights,  wild,  unsteady  gentlemen  in  short  cloaks, 
flushed  Alison  in  the  midst  —  one  can  picture  the  scene. 
The  ceremony  was  prolonged ;  there  were  two  nights’  vigil 
to  be  made  up.  On  a  sudden,  half-way  to  the  girl’s  cold 
lips,  Lord  Bothwell  stops,  looks  sidelong,  listens. 

‘  The  burgh  is  awake.  Hark  to  that !  Gentlemen,  we 
must  draw  off.’ 

They  hear  cries  in  the  street,  men  racing  along  the 
flags.  From  the  door  below  one  calls,  ‘The  Hamiltons! 
Look  to  yourselves  !  The  Hamiltons  !  ’ 

Almost  immediately  follows  a  scuffle,  a  broken  oath, 
the  ‘  Oh,  Christ !  ’  and  fall  of  a  man.  Lord  Bothwell 
regards  his  friends  —  posterior  parts  of  three  or  four  cran¬ 
ing  out  of  window,  D’Elboeuf  tying  up  his  points,  John 
Stuart  dancing  about  the  floor.  ‘  Gentlemen,  come 
down.’ 

He  wrapped  his  cloak  round  his  left  arm,  whipped  out 
his  blade,  and  went  clattering  down  the  stair.  The  others 
came  behind  him.  From  the  passage  they  heard  the  fight¬ 
ing  ;  from  the  door,  as  they  stood  spying  there,  the  whole 
town  seemed  a  roaring  cave  of  men.  Through  and  above 
the  din  they  could  catch  the  screaming  of  Lord  Arran, 
choked  with  rage,  tears,  and  impotence. 


CH.  IV 


ROUGH  MUSIC  HERE 


5  7 


‘  Who  is  the  doxy,  I  shall  ask  ye :  Arran  or  the  lass  ? ' 
says  Bothwell,  making  ready  to  rush  the  entry. 

Just  as  he  cleared  the  door  he  was  stabbed  by  a  dirk  in 
the  upper  arm,  and  felt  the  blood  go  from  him.  All  Edin¬ 
burgh  seemed  awake  —  a  light  in  every  window  and  a 
woman  to  hold  it.  Hamiltons  and  their  friends  packed 
the  street :  some  twenty  Hepburns  about  Ramsay’s  door 
kept  their  backs  to  the  wall.  For  a  time  there  was  great 
work. 

In  the  midst  of  the  hubbub  they  heard  the  pipes  skirl¬ 
ing  in  the  Cowgate. 

‘  Here  comes  old  Huntly  from  his  lodging,’  says  Lord 
John  to  his  neighbour.  This  was  Bothwell,  engaged  with 
three  men  at  the  moment,  and  in  a  gay  humour. 

‘  Ay,  hark  to  him !  ’  he  called  over  his  shoulder ;  and 
then,  purring  like  some  fierce  cat,  ‘Softly  now  —  aha,  I 
have  thee,  friend  !  ’  and  ran  one  of  his  men  through  the 
body. 

The  pipes  blew  shrilly,  close  at  hand,  the  Gordons 
plunged  into  the  street.  Led  by  their  chief,  by  John  of 
Findlater  and  Adam  (a  mere  boy),  they  came  rioting  into 
battle. 

‘Aboyne!  Aboyne!  Watch  for  the  Gordon!’ — they 
held  together  and  clove  through  the  massed  men  like  a  bolt. 

‘  Hold  your  ground  !  I’ll  gar  them  give  back  !  ’  cried 
old  Huntly ;  and  Bothwell,  rallying  his  friends,  pushed  out 
to  meet  him :  if  he  had  succeeded  the  Hamiltons  had  been 
cut  in  two.  As  it  was,  the  fighting  was  more  scattered, 
the  melee  broken  up;  and  this  was  the  state  of  affairs 
when  the  Lord  James  chose  to  appear  with  a  company  of 
the  Queen’s  men  from  the  Castle. 

For  the  Lord  James,  in  his  great  house  at  the  head  of 
Peebles  Wynd  — -  awake  over  his  papers  when  all  the  world 
was  asleep  or  at  wickedness  —  had  heard  the  rumours  of 
the  fight ;  and  then,  even  while  he  considered  it,  heard  the 
Gordons  go  by.  Pie  heard  old  Huntly  encouraging  his 
men,  heard  John  of  Findlater:  if  he  had  needed  just 
advantage  over  his  scornful  enemy  he  might  have  it  now. 
He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  stood  gazing  at  his  papers, 
rubbing  together  his  soft  white  hands.  Anon  he  went  to 


58 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


the  closet,  awoke  his  servant,  and  bade  him  make  ready 
for  the  street.  Cloaked,  armed  and  bonneted,  followed  by 
the  man,  he  went  by  silent  ways  to  the  Castle. 

When  he  came  upon  the  scene  of  the  fray,  he  found 
John  Gordon  of  Findlater  at  grapple  with  a  Hamilton 
amid  a  litter  of  fallen  men.  He  found  Adam  Gordon  pale 
by  the  wall,  wounded,  smiling  at  his  first  wound.  He 
could  not  find  old  Huntly,  for  he  was  far  afield,  chasing 
men  down  the  wynds.  D’Elboeuf  had  slipped  away  on 
other  mischief,  Bothwell  (with  a  troublesome  gash)  had 
gone  home  to  bed.  He  saw  Arran  battering  at  Ramsay’s 
door,  calling  on  his  Alison  to  open  to  him  —  and  left  the 
fool  to  his  folly.  It  was  Huntly  he  wanted,  and,  failing 
him,  took  what  hostages  he  could  get.  He  had  John  of 
Findlater  pinioned  from  behind,  young  Adam  from  before, 
and  the  pair  sent  off  guarded  to  the  Castle. 

To  Arran,  then,  who  ceased  not  his  lamentations,  he 
sternly  said,  ‘  Fie,  my  lord,  trouble  not  for  such  a  jade  at 
such  an  hour ;  but  help  me  rather  to  punish  the  Queen’s 
enemies.’ 

Arran  turned  upon  him,  pouring  out  his  injuries  in  a 
stream. 

The  Lord  James  listened  closely:  so  many  great  names 
involved !  Ah,  the  Earl  of  Bothwell !  Alas,  my  lord, 
rashness  and  vainglory  are  hand-in-hand,  I  fear.  The 
Marquis  D’Elboeuf !  Deplorable  cousin  of  her  Majesty. 
The  Lord  John!  Tush  —  my  own  unhappy  brother! 
One  must  go  deeply,  make  free  with  the  knife,  to  cut  out 
of  our  commonwealth  the  knot  of  so  much  disease. 

‘  My  Lord  of  Arran,’  he  concluded  solemnly,  ‘  your 
offence  is  deep,  but  the  Queen’s  deeper  than  you  suppose. 
I  cannot  stay  your  resentment  against  the  Earl  of  Bothwell ; 
it  is  in  the  course  of  nature  and  of  man  that  you  should 
be  moved.  But  the  Earl  of  Huntly  is  the  more  dangerous 
person.’ 

My  Lord  James  it  was  who  led  the  now  sobbing  Arran 
to  his  lodging,  and  sought  his  own  afterwards,  well  content 
with  the  night’s  work.  It  is  not  always  that  you  find  two 
of  your  enemies  united  in  wrong-doing,  and  the  service  of 
the  state  the  service  of  private  grudges. 


CH.  IV 


ROUGH  MUSIC  HERE 


59 


When  the  archers  had  cleared  the  streets  of  the  quick, 
afterwards  came  down  silently  the  women  and  carried 
off  the  hurt  and  the  dead.  The  women’s  office,  this,  in 
Edinburgh. 

The  Queen  was  yet  in  her  bed  when  Huntly  came 
swelling  into  Holyroodhouse,  demanding  audience  as  his 
right.  But  the  Lord  James  had  been  beforehand  with 
him,  and  was  in  the  bedchamber  with  the  Secretary,  able  to 
stay,  with  a  look,  the  usher  at  the  door.  ‘  It  is  proper 
that  your  Majesty  should  be  informed  of  certain  grave 
occurrents,’  he  began  to  explain ;  and  told  her  the  story 
of  the  night  so  far  as  was  convenient.  According  to  him, 
the  Earl  of  Bothwell  mixed  the  brew  and  the  Earl  of 
Huntly  stirred  it.  D’Elboeuf  was  not  named,  John  Stuart 
not  named — when  the  Queen  asked,  what  was  the  broil 
about  ?  Ah,  her  Majesty  must  hold  him  excused  :  it  was 
an  unsavoury  tale  for  a  lady’s  ear.  4 1  should  need  to  be  a 
deaf  lady  in  order  to  have  comfortable  ears,  upon  your 
showing,’  she  said  sharply.  How  well  he  had  the  secret  of 
egging  her  on  !  ‘  Rehearse  the  tale  from  the  beginning, 

my  lord  ;  and  consider  my  ears  as  hardened  as  your  own.’ 
He  let  her  drag  it  out  of  him  by  degrees  :  Arran’s  mistress, 
Bothwell’s  night  work,  so  hard  following  upon  night  talk 
with  her;  Huntly’s  furious  pride:  rough  music  indeed  for 
young  ears.  But  she  had  no  time  to  shrink  from  the 
sound  or  to  nurse  any  wound  to  her  own  pride.  At  the 
mere  mention  of  Bothwell’s  name  Mary  Livingstone  was 
up  in  a  red  fury,  and  drove  her  mistress  to  her  wiles. 

‘  And  this  is  the  brave  gentleman,’  cried  the  maid,  ‘  this 
is  the  gallant  who  holds  my  Queen  in  his  arms,  and  goes 
warm  from  them  to  a  trollop’s  of  the  town  !  Fit  and  right 
for  the  courtier  who  blasphemes  with  grooms  in  the  court 
—  but  for  you,  madam,  for  you!  Well —  I  hope  you  will 
know  your  friends  in  time.’ 

The  Queen  looked  innocently  at  her,  with  the  pure 
inquiry  of  a  child.  ‘  What  did  he  want  with  the  girl  ? 
Some  folly  to  gall  my  Lord  Arran,  belike.’  Incredible 
questions  to  Livingstone  ! 

Just  then  they  could  hear  old  Lord  Huntly  storming  in 


6o 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


the  antechamber.  ‘  There  hurtles  the  true  offender,  in  my 
judgment,’  said  the  Lord  James. 

‘  He  uses  an  unmannerly  way  of  excuse,’  says  the 
Queen,  listening  to  his  rhetoric. 

‘  Madam,’  said  Mr.  Secretary  here,  ‘  I  think  he  rather 
accuses.  For  his  sort  are  so,  that  they  regard  every  wrong 
they  do  as  a  wrong  done  to  themselves.  And  so,  per¬ 
chance,  it  is  to  be  regarded  in  the  ethic  part  of  philosophy.’ 

‘Why  does  he  rail  at  my  pages?  Why  does  he  not 
come  in  ?  ’  the  Queen  asked.  Whereupon  the  Lord 
James  nodded  to  the  usher  at  the  door. 

Delay  had  been  troublesome  to  the  furious  old  man, 
fretting  his  nerves  and  exhausting  his  indignation  before 
the  time.  He  was  out  of  breath  as  well  as  patience ;  so 
the  Queen  had  the  first  word,  which  he  had  by  no  means 
intended.  She  held  up  her  finger  at  him. 

‘Ah,  my  Lord  of  Huntly,  you  angered  me  the  other 
day,  and  I  overlooked  it  for  the  love  I  bear  to  your  family. 
And  now,  when  you  have  angered  me  again,  you  storm  in 
my  house  as  if  it  was  your  own.  What  am  I  to  think  ?  ’ 

He  looked  at  her  with  stormy,  wet  eyes,  and  spoke 
brokenly,  being  full  of  his  injuries.  ‘  I  am  hurt,  madam,  I 
am  sore  affronted,  traduced,  stabbed  in  the  back.  My  son, 
madam - !  ’ 

She  showed  anger.  ‘  Your  son  !  Your  son  !  You  have 
presumed  too  far.  You  offer  me  marriage  with  your  son, 
and  he  leaves  me  for  a  fray  in  the  street !  ’ 

Startled,  he  puffed  out  his  cheeks.  ‘  I  take  God  to 
witness,  liars  have  been  behind  me.  Madam,  my  son 
Gordon  had  no  hand  in  the  night’s  work.  He  was  not  in 
my  house  ;  he  was  not  with  me  ;  I  know  not  where  he  was. 
A  fine  young  man  of  his  years,  look  you,  madam,  may  not 
be  penned  up  like  a  sucking  calf.  No,  no.  But  gallant 
sons  of  mine  there  were  —  who  have  suffered  —  whose 
injuries  cry  aloud  for  redress.  And,  madam,  I  am  here  to 
claim  it  at  your  hands.’ 

‘  Speak  your  desires  of  me :  I  shall  listen,’  said  she. 

The  old  man  looked  fixedly  at  his  enemy  across  the  bed. 
‘Ay,  madam,  and  so  I  will.’  He  folded  his  arms,  and  the 
action,  and  the  weight  of  his  wrongs,  stemmed  his  vehemence 


CH.  IV 


ROUGH  MUSIC  HERE 


6 1 


for  a  while.  Dignity  also  he  gained  by  his  restraint,  a 
quality  of  which  he  stood  in  need ;  and  truly  he  was 
dignified.  To  hear  his  account,  loyalty  to  the  throne  and 
to  his  friends  was  all  the  source  of  his  troubles.  He  had 
come  down  with  proffers  of  alliance  to  the  Queen,  and  they 
laughed  him  to  scorn.  He  with  his  two  sons  rose  out  of 
their  beds  to  quell  a  riot,  to  succour  their  friends - 

‘  And  whom  do  you  call  your  friends  ?  ’  cried  the  Queen, 
interrupting  him  quickly. 

He  told  her  the  Hamiltons  —  but  there  certainly  he  lied  — 
good  friends  of  his  and  hopeful  to  be  better.  The  Queen 
calmed  herself.  ‘  I  had  understood  that  you  went  to  the 
rescue  of  my  Lord  Bothwell,’  she  began ;  and  true  it  was, 
he  had.  But  now  he  laughed  at  the  thought,  and  maybe 
found  it  laughable. 

‘  No,  no,  madam,’  he  said :  ‘  there  are  no  dealings 
betwixt  me  and  the  border-thieves.  But  the  Duke  hath 
made  a  treaty  with  me  ;  and  it  was  to  help  my  Lord  Arran, 
his  son,  that  I  and  mine  went  out.’  Well !  he  had  stayed 
the  riot,  he  had  carved  out  peace  at  the  sword’s  edge. 
‘  Anon  ’  — and  he  pointed  out  the  man  —  ‘  Anon  comes  that 
creeper  by  darksome  ways,  and  rewards  my  sons  with 
prison-bars  —  he,  that  has  sought  my  fair  earldom  and  all! 
Ay,  madam,  ay  !  ’  —  his  voice  rose  —  ‘  so  it  is.  Of  all  the 
souls  in  peril  last  night,  some  for  villainy’s  sake,  some  to 
serve  their  wicked  lusts,  some  for  love  of  the  game,  and  some 
for  honesty  and  truth  —  these  last  are  rewarded  by  the  jail. 
Madam,  madam,  I  tell  your  Majesty,  honest  men  are  not  to 
be  bought  and  sold.  You  may  stretch  heart-strings  till  they 
crack;  you  may  tempt  the  North,  and  rue  the  spoiling  of 
the  North.  I  know  whose  work  this  is,  what  black  infernal 
stain  of  blood  is  in  turmoil  here.  I  know,  madam,  I  say, 
and  you  know  not.  Some  are  begotten  by  night,  and  some 
in  stealth  by  day  —  when  the  great  world  is  at  its  affairs,  and 
the  house  left  empty,  and  nought  rife  in  it  but  wicked 
humours.  Beware  this  kind,  madam  —  beware  it.  What 
they  have  lost  by  the  bed  they  may  retrieve  by  the  head. 
Unlawful,  unlawful  —  a  black  strain.’ 

The  Lord  James  was  stung  out  of  himself.  ‘  By  heaven, 
madam,  this  should  be  stopped  !  ’ 


62 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


The  Queen  put  up  her  hand.  ‘  Enough  said.  My  Lord 
Huntly,  what  is  your  pleasure  of  me  ?  ’ 

Old  Huntly  folded  up  his  wrath  in  his  arms  once  more. 
*  I  ask,  madam,  the  release  of  my  two  sons  —  of  my  son 
Findlater,  and  of  Adam,  my  young  son,  wounded  in  your 
service,  sorely  wounded,  and  in  bonds.’ 

‘  You  frame  your  petition  unhappily,’  said  the  Queen  with 
spirit.  ‘This  is  not  the  way  for  subjects  to  handle  the 
prince.’ 

He  extended  his  arms,  and  gaped  about  him.  ‘  Subjects, 
she  saith !  Handling,  she  saith  !  Oh,  now,  look  you, 
madam,  how  they  handle  your  subject  and  my  boy.  He 
hath  fifteen  years  to  his  head,  madam,  and  a  chin  as  smooth 
as  your  own.  I  fear  he  is  hurt  to  the  death —  I  fear  it  sadly ; 
and  it  turns  me  sick  to  face  his  mother  with  the  news. 
Three  sons  take  I  out,  and  all  the  hopes  I  have  nursed  since 
your  Majesty  lay  a  babe  in  your  mother’s  arm.  With  one 
only  I  must  return,  with  one  only  —  and  no  hopes,  no  hopes 
at  a’  —  madam,  an  old  and  broken  man.’  He  was  greatly 
moved;  tears  pricked  his  eyelids  and  made  him  fretful. 
‘  Folly,  folly  of  an  old  fool !  To  greet  before  a  bairn  !  ’ 
He  brought  tears  into  the  Queen’s  eyes. 

‘I  am  sorry  for  your  son  Adam,’  she  said  gently;  ‘but 
do  not  you  grieve  for  him.  He  is  too  young  to  suffer  for 
what  he  did  under  duress.  You  shall  not  weep  before  me. 
I  hate  it.  It  makes  me  weep  with  you,  and  that  is  forbidden 
to  queens,  they  say.’ 

A  man  had  appeared  at  the  curtain  of  the  door,  and 
stood  hidden  in  it.  The  Lord  James  went  to  him  while  the 
Queen  was  turned  to  the  Secretary. 

‘  Mr.  Secretary,’  said  she,  ‘  you  Shall  send  up  presently  to 
the  Castle.  I  desire  to  know  h#w  doth  Sir  Adam  of  Gordon. 
Bring  me  word  as  soon  as  may  be.’  She  had  returned 
kindly  to  the  old  Earl  when  her  brother  was  back  by 
the  bed. 

‘  Madam,’  he  said  to  her,  but  looked  directly  at  his  foe, 
‘the  injuries  of  my  Lord  Huntly ’s  family  are  not  ended,  it 
appears.  They  bring  me  news - ’ 

That  was  a  slip ;  the  Queen’s  cheeks  burned.  ‘  Ah,  they 
bring  you  news,  my  lord  !  ’ 


CH.  IV 


ROUGH  MUSIC  HERE 


63 


He  hastened  to  add :  ‘  And  I,  as  my  duty  is,  report  to 
your  Majesty,  that  Sir  John  Gordon  of  Findlater  hath, 
within  this  hour,  broken  ward.  He  is  away,  madam,  leav¬ 
ing  an  honest  man  dead  in  his  room.’  He  had  made  a  false 
step  in  the  beginning,  but  the  news  redeemed  him. 

The  Queen  looked  very  grave.  ‘  What  have  you  to  say 
to  this,  Lord  of  Huntly  ?  ’ 

‘  I  say  that  he  is  my  very  son,  madam,’  cried  the  stout 
old  chief,  ‘  and  readier  with  his  wits  than  that  encroacher 
over  there.’ 

Mr.  Secretary  Lethington  covered  a  smile;  the  Queen 
did  not.  But  she  replied  :  ‘  And  I  say  that  he  is  too  ready 
with  his  wits ;  and  to  you,  my  lord,  I  say  that  you  must 
fetch  him  back.  I  will  not  be  defied.’ 

She  saw  his  dogged  look,  and  admired  it  in  him.  Well 
she  knew  how  to  soften  him  now ! 

‘There  shall  be  no  bargain  between  you  and  me,’  she 
continued,  looking  keenly  at  him ;  ‘  but  as  I  have  passed 
my  word,  now  pass  you  yours.  I  will  take  care  of  the  boy. 
He  shall  be  here,  and  I  will  teach  him  to  love  his  Queen 
better  than  his  father  can  do  it,  I  believe.  That  is  my 
part.  Now  for  yours:  go* you  out  and  bring  me  back  Sir 
John.’ 

Old  Huntly  ran  forward  to  the  bed,  fell  on  his  knees 
beside  it,  and  took  the  girl’s  hand.  The  tears  he  now  felt 
were  kindlier,  and  he  let  them  come.  ‘  Oh,  if  you  and  I 
could  deal,  my  Queen,’  he  said,  ‘all  Scotland  should  go 
laughing.  If  we  could  deal,  as  now  we  have,  with  the 
hearts’  doors  open,  and  none  between !  Why,  I  see  the 
brave  days  yet !  I  shall  bring  back  Findlater,  fear  not  for 
it ;  and  there  shall  be  Gordons  about  you  like  a  green 
forest  —  and  yourself  the  bonny,  bonny  rose  bowered  in 
the  midst !  God  give  your  Majesty  comfort,  who  have 
given  back  comfort  and  pride  unto  me  !  ’ 

The  Queen’s  eyes  shone  with  wet  as  she  laughed  her 
pleasure.  ‘  Go  then,  my  lord ;  deal  fairly  by  me.’ 

He  left  her  there  and  then,  swelling  with  pride,  emotion, 
and  vanity  inflamed,  meaning  to  do  well  if  any  man  ever 
did.  He  brushed  aside  Lethington  with  a  sweep  of  the 
arm  —  ‘  Clear  a  way  there  —  clear  a  way  !  ’ 


6  4 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


In  this  Gordon  conflict  the  iniquities  of  Lord  Bothwell 
were  forgotten,  for  the  Queen’s  mind  was  now  set  upon 
kind  offices.  She  took  young  Adam  into  her  house  and 
visited  him  every  day.  As  you  might  have  expected, 
where  the  lad  was  handsome  and  the  lady  predisposed  to 
be  generous,  she  looked  more  than  she  said,  and  said  more 
than  she  need.  Young  Adam  fell  in  love  with  this  glim¬ 
mering,  murmuring,  golden  princess.  Fell,  do  I  say?  He 
slipped,  rather,  as  in  summer  one  lets  oneself  slip  into  the 
warm  still  water.  Even  so  slipped  he,  and  was  over  the 
ears  before  he  was  aware.  Whatever  she  may  have  said, 
he  made  mighty  little  reply :  the  Gordons  were  always 
modest  before  women,  and  this  one  but  a  boy.  He  hardly 
dared  look  at  her  when  she  came,  though  for  a  matter  of 
three  hours  before  he  had  never  taken  his  eyes  from  the 
door  through  which  she  was  to  glide  in  upon  him  like  a 
Queen  of  Fays.  And  the  fragrance  she  carried  about  her, 
the  wonder  of  her  which  filled  the  little  chamber  where  he 
lay,  the  sense  of  a  goddess  unveiling,  of  daily  miracle,  of 
her  stooping  (glorious  condescension!),  and  of  his  lifting- 
up —  ah,  let  him  who  has  deified  a  lady  tell  the  glory  if  he 
dare  !  The  work  was  done  :  she  was  amused,  the  miracle 
wrought.  She  had  found  him  a  sulky  boy,  she  left  him  a 
budded  knight.  Here  was  one  of  the  conquests  she  made 
every  day  without  the  drawing  of  a  sword.  Most  women 
loved  her,  and  all  boys  and  girls.  But  although  these  are, 
after  all,  the  pick  of  the  world  —  to  whom  she  was  the  Rose 
of  roses  —  we  must  consider,  unhappily,  the  refuse.  They 
were  the  flies  at  the  Honeypot. 

Mary  Livingstone,  not  seriously,  chid  her  mistress.  *  Oh, 
fie  !  oh,  fie  !  ’  she  would  say.  ‘  Do  you  waste  your  sweet 
store  on  a  bairn  ?  They  call  you  too  fond  already.  Do 
you  wish  to  have  none  but  fools  about  you  ?  ’ 

‘  If  it  is  foolish  to  love  me,  child,’  said  the  Queen,  pre¬ 
tending  to  pout,  ‘  you  condemn  yourself.  And  if  it  is  foolish 
of  me  to  love  you,  or  to  love  Love  —  again  you  condemn 
yourself,  who  teach  me  day  by  day.  Are  you  jealous 
of  the  little  Gordon,  or  of  the  little  Jean-Marie?  Or  is  it 
Monsieur  de  Chatelard  whom  you  fear  ?  ’ 

‘  Chatelard,  forsooth  !  A  parrokeet !  ’ 


CH.  IV 


ROUGH  MUSIC  HERE 


65 


The  Queen  laughed.  ‘  If  you  are  jealous,  Mary  Living¬ 
stone,  you  must  cut  off  my  hands  and  seal  my  mouth ;  for 
should  you  take  away  all  my  lovers,  I  should  stroke  the 
pillars  of  the  house  till  they  were  warm,  and  kiss  the  maids 
in  the  kitchen  until  they  were  clean.  I  must  love,  my  dear, 
and  be  loved:  that  I  devoutly  believe.’ 

‘  Lord  Jesus,  and  so  do  I !  ’  groaned  the  good  girl,  and 
thanked  Him  on  whom  she  called  that  Bothwell’s  day  was 
over.  For  although  she  said  not  a  word  of  the  late  scandal, 
she  watched  every  day  and  lay  awake  o’  nights  for  any 
sign  that  he  was  in  the  Queen’s  thoughts.  All  she  could 
discover  for  certain  was  that  he  came  no  more  to  Court. 
And  yet  he  was  in  or  near  Edinburgh.  The  old  Duke  of 
Chatelherault  had  himself  announced  one  day  in  a  great 
taking,  with  a  pitiful  story  of  his  son  Arran.  Lord  Both- 
well’s  name  rang  loud  in  it.  His  son  Arran,  cousin  (he  was 
careful  to  say)  of  her  Majesty’s,  being  highly  incensed  at 
the  affront  he  had  suffered,  had  challenged  the  Earl  of 
Bothwell  to  a  battle  of  three  on  a  side.  The  weapons  had 
been  named,  the  men  chosen.  My  Lord  Bothwell  had 
kept  tryst,  Arran  (on  his  father’s  counsel)  had  not.  There¬ 
upon  my  Lord  Bothwell  cries  aloud,  in  the  hearing  of  a 
score  persons,  ‘  We’ll  drag  him  out  by  the  lugs,  gentle¬ 
men  !  ’  and  set  about  to  do  it.  ‘  My  son  Arran,  madam, 
goes  in  deadly  fear ;  for  so  ruthless  a  man,  a  man  so 
arrogant  upon  the  laws  as  this  Lord  of  Bothwell  vexeth  not 
your  Majesty’s  once  prosperous  realm.  Alas,  that  such 
things  should  be !  Madam,  I  gravely  doubt  for  my  son’s 
safety.’ 

‘  Why,  what  would  you  have  of  me,  cousin  ?  ’  says  the 
Queen.  ‘  I  cannot  fight  your  son’s  battle.  Courage  I 
cannot  give  him.  Am  I  to  protect  him  in  my  house  ?  ’ 

‘  It  is  protection,  indeed,  madam,  that  I  crave.  But 
your  Majesty  knows  very  well  in  what  guise  I  would  have 
him  enter  your  house.’ 

This  was  too  open  dealing  to  be  dextrous  in  such  a 
delicate  market. 

‘Upon  my  word,  cousin,’  says  the  Queen,  ‘I  think  that 
you  carry  your  plans  of  protection  too  far  if  you  propose 
that  I  should  shelter  him  in  my  bed.’ 

E 


66 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


The  old  Duke  looked  so  confounded  at  this  blunt 
commentary  that  she  repented  later,  and  promised  that  she 
would  try  a  reconciliation.  4  But  I  cannot  move  in  it 
myself,’  she  told  him.  ‘There  are  many  reasons  against 
that.  Do  you  say  that  my  Lord  Bothwell  threatens  the 
life  of  your  son  ?  ’ 

‘  Indeed,  madam,  I  do  fear  it.’ 

‘  Well,  I  will  see  that  he  does  not  get  it. 
deal  as  I  can.’ 

The  Queen  sent  for  Mr.  Knox. 


Leave  me  to 


CHAPTER  V 


HERE  ARE  FLIES  AT  THE  HONEYPOT 

*  The  Comic  Mask  now  appears/  says  Le  Secret  des  Secrets 
in  a  reflective  mood,  ‘the  Comic  Mask,  with  a  deprecatory 
grin,  to  show  how  it  was  the  misfortune  of  Scotland  at  this 
time  that,  being  a  poor  country,  every  funded  man  in  it 
was  forced  to  fatten  his  glebe  at  the  cost  of  his  neighbour’s. 
So  house  was  set  against  house,  friendship  made  a  vain 
thing,  and  loyalty  a  marketable  thing.  More  than  that, 
every  standard  of  value  set  up  to  be  a  beacon  or  channel- 
post  or  point  of  rally  (whichever  you  chose  to  make  it), 
became  ipso  facto  a  tower  of  vantage,  from  which,  if  you 
were  to  draw  your  dues,  it  was  necessary  to  scare  every¬ 
body  else.  When  Mr.  Knox  sourly  called  Queen  Mary  a 
Honeypot,  he  intended  to  hold  her  out  to  scorn ;  but 
actually  he  decried  his  countrymen  who  saw  her  so ;  and 
not  saw  her  only,  but  every  high  estate  beside.  For  them 
the  Church  was  a  honeypot,  the  council,  the  command  of 
the  shore,  the  wardenry  of  the  marches.  “Come,”  they 
said,  “  let  us  eat  and  drink  of  this  store,  but  for  God’s  sake 
keep  off  the  rest,  or  it  will  never  hold  out.”  Round  about, 
round  about,  came  the  buzzing  flies,  at  once  eager  and 
querulous  ;  and  while  they  sipped  they  looked  from  the 
corners  of  their  eyes  lest  some  other  should  get  more  than 
his  share ;  and  the  murmurs  of  the  feasters  were  as  often 
“Give  him  less”  as  “Give  me  more.”  Yet  it  would  be 
wrong,  I  conceive,  to  call  the  Scots  lords  all  greedy ;  safer 
to  remember  that  most  of  them  must  certainly  have  been 

67 


68 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


hungry.’  So  Monsieur  Des-Essars  obtrudes  his  chorus  — 
after  the  event. 

Young  Queen  Mary,  hard-up  against  the  event,  had  no 
chorus  but  trusty  Livingstone  of  the  red  cheeks  and  warm 
heart ;  nor  until  her  first  Christmas  was  kept  and  gone  was 
she  conscious  of  needing  one.  She  had  maintained  a  high 
spirit  through  all  the  dark  and  windy  autumn  days,  finding 
Bothwell’s  effrontery  as  easy  to  explain  as  the  Duke’s 
poltroonery,  or  the  hasty  veering  of  old  Huntly.  Bothwell, 
she  would  extenuate,  held  her  cheap  because  women  were 
his  pastime,  the  Duke  sought  her  protection  because  he 
was  a  coward,  Huntly  shied  off  because  his  vanity  was 
offended.  If  men  indeed  had  ever  been  so  simple  to  be 
explained,  this  world  were  as  easy  to  manage  as  a  paste¬ 
board  theatre.  The  simplicity  was  her  own ;  but  she 
shared  the  quality  with  another  when  she  sent  for  Mr. 
Knox  because  she  thought  him  her  rival,  and  when  he 
came  prepared  to  play  the  part. 

The  time  was  November,  with  the  floods  out  and  rain 
that  never  ceased.  It  was  dark  all  day  outside  the  palace  ; 
raw  cold  and  showers  of  sleet  mastered  the  town ;  but 
within,  great  fires  made  the  chambers  snug  where  the 
Queen  sat  with  her  maids  and  young  men.  The  French 
lords  had  taken  their  leave,  the  pageants  and  dancings 
were  stayed  for  a  time.  In  a  diminished  Court,  which  held 
neither  the  superb  Princes  of  Guise  nor  the  hardy-tongued 
Lord  of  Bothwell  —  in  a  domesticated,  needleworking, 
chattering,  hearth-haunting  Court  —  there  was  a  great 
adventure  for  the  coy  excellences  of  Monsieur  de  Chatelard. 
Discussing  his  prospects  freely  with  Des-Essars,  he  told 
him  that  he  had  two  serious  rivals  only.  ‘  Monsieur  de 
Boduel,’  he  said,  ‘forces  my  Princess  to  think  of  him  by 
insulting  her.  He  appears  to  succeed;  but  so  would  the 
man  who  should  twist  your  arm,  my  little  Jean-Marie,  and 
make  cuts  with  the  hand  at  the  fleshy  part.  He  would 
compel  you  to  think  of  him,  but  with  fear.  Now,  fear, 
look  you,  is  not  the  lady’s  part  in  love,  but  the  man’s,  the 
perfect  lover’s  part.  For  it  may  be  doubted  whether  a 
woman  can  ever  be  a  perfect  lover  —  if  only  for  this  reason, 
that  she  is  designed  for  the  love  of  a  man.  The  Lord 


CH.  V 


FLIES  AT  THE  HONEYPOT 


69 


Gordon,  eldest  son  and  heir  of  that  savage  greybeard, 
Monsieur  de  Huntly,  is  my  other  adversary  in  the  sweet 
warfare.  She  looks  at  him  as  you  must  needs  observe  a 
church  tower  in  your  Brabant.  It  is  the  tallest  thing  there  ; 
you  cannot  avoid  it.  But  what  fine  long  legs  can  prevail 
against  the  silken  tongue  ?  Not  his,  at  least.  Therefore  I 
sing  my  best,  I  dance,  I  stand  prayerful  at  corners  of  the 
corridor.  And  one  day,  when  I  see  her  pensive,  or  hear 
her  sigh  as  she  goes  past  me,  do  you  know  what  I  shall 
do  ?  I  shall  run  forward  and  clasp  her  knees,  and  cry 
aloud,  “  We  bleed,  we  bleed,  Princess,  we  bleed !  Come, 
my  divine  balm,  let  us  stanch  mutually  these  wounds  of 
ours.  For  I  too  have  balsam  for  thee !  ”  Do  you  not 
think  the  plan  admirable  ?  ’ 

‘It  is  very  poetical,’  said  Des-Essars,  ‘and  has  this 
merit,  usually  denied  to  poetry,  that  it  is  uncommonly 
explicit.  I  think  I  know  better  than  you  what  are  the 
designs  of  Monsieur  de  Boduel,  since  he  was  once  my 
master.  He  does  not  seek  to  insult  or  to  terrify  my 
mistress,  as  you  seem  to  suppose  —  but  to  induce  her  to 
trust  him.  He  would  wish  to  appear  to  her  in  the  char¬ 
acter  of  the  one  man  in  Scotland  who  does  not  seek  some 
advantage  from  her.  My  Lord  Gordon’s  designs  —  to  use 
the  word  for  convenience,  though,  in  fact,  he  has  no 
designs  —  are  as  simple  as  yours.  He  is  infatuated  ;  the 
Queen  has  turned  his  head ;  and  it  is  no  wonder,  seeing 
that  she  troubled  herself  to  do  it.’ 

‘  If  he  has  no  designs,  boy,’  cried  Monsieur  de  Chate- 
lard,  ‘how  can  you  compare  him  with  me,  who  have 
many  ?  ’ 

Des-Essars  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head.  ‘  I 
suppose  you  are  the  same  in  this,  at  least,’  he  said,  ‘  that 
both  of  you  seek  to  get  pleasure  out  of  my  mistress.  Let 
me  tell  you  that  your  most  serious  rival  of  all  is  one  of 
whom  you  know  nothing  —  one  who  seeks  neither  pleasure 
nor  profit  from  her;  to  whom,  therefore,  she  will  almost 
certainly  offer  the  utmost  of  her  store.’ 

‘  Who  is  this  remarkable  man,  pray  ?  ’ 

‘  It  is  Master  Knox,  the  Genevan  preacher,’  said  Des- 
Essars.  ‘  I  think  there  is  more  danger  to  the  Queen’s 


70 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


heart  in  this  man’s  keeping  than  in  that  of  the  whole  Privy 
Council  of  this  kingdom.’ 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard  was  profoundly  surprised.  ‘I 
had  never  considered  him  at  all,’  he  admitted.  ‘In  my 
country,  Jean-Marie,  and  I  suppose  in  yours  also,  we  do 
not  consider  the  gentry  of  religion  until  our  case  is  become 
extreme.  Of  what  kindred  is  this  man  ?  ’ 

‘  He  is  of  the  sons  of  Adam,  I  suppose,  and  a  tall  one. 
I  have  seen  him.’ 

‘You  mistake  me,  my  boy.  Hath  he  blood,  for 
example  ?  ’ 

‘  Sir,  I  will  warrant  it  very  red.  In  fine,  sir,  this  man  is 
King  of  Scotland;  and,  though  it  may  surprise  you  to 
hear  me  say  so,  I  will  be  so  bold  as  to  add  in  your  private 
ear,  that  no  true  lover  of  the  Queen  my  mistress  could 
wish  her  to  give  up  her  heart  into  any  other  keeping 
which  this  country  can  furnish.’ 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  after  a  short,  quick  turn  about 
the  room,  came  back  to  Des-Essars  vivacious  and  angry. 
‘You  speak  absurdly,  like  the  pert  valet  you  are  likely  to 
become.  What  can  you  know  of  love  —  you,  who  dare  to 
dispose  of  your  mistress’s  heart  in  this  fashion  ?  ’ 

Des-Essars  looked  grave.  ‘  It  is  open  to  me,  young  as 
I  am,  to  love  the  Queen  my  mistress,  and  to  desire  her 
welfare.  I  love  her  devotedly ;  but  I  swear  that  I  desire 
nothing  else.  Nor  does  my  partner  and  sworn  ally, 
Monsieur  Adam  de  Gordon.’ 

‘Love,’  said  Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  tapping  his  bosom, 

‘  severs  brotherhoods  and  dissolves  every  oath.  It  is  a 
perfectly  selfish  passion :  even  the  beloved  must  suffer  for 
the  lover’s  need.  Do  you  and  your  partner  suppose  that 
you  can  stay  my  advance  ?  The  thought  is  laughable.’ 

‘  We  neither  suppose  it  nor  propose  it,’  replied  the  youth. 
‘We  are  considering  the  case  of  Mr.  Knox,  and  are  agreed 
that,  detestable  as  his  opinions  may  be,  there  is  great  force 
in  them  because  of  the  great  force  in  himself.  We  think 
he  may  draw  the  Queen’s  favour  by  the  very  neglect  he 
hath  of  it ;  and  although  our  natures  would  lead  us  to 
advance  the  suit  of  my  Lord  Gordon,  who  is  my  col¬ 
league’s  blood-brother,  as  you  know  —  for  all  that,  it  is  our 


CH.  V 


FLIES  AT  THE  HONEYPOT 


7i 


deliberate  intention  to  throw  no  obstacle  in  the  way  of  any 
pretensions  this  Master  Knox  may  chance  to  exhibit.’ 

And,  pray,’  cried  Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  drawing 
himself  up,  ( and,  pray,  how  do  you  look  upon  my  pre¬ 
tensions,  which,  I  need  not  tell  you,  do  not  embrace 
marriage  ?  ’ 

‘  To  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,’  Des-Essars  replied,  ‘  we  do 
not  look  upon  them  at  all.’ 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard  was  satisfied.  ‘  I  think  you  are 
very  wise,  he  said.  ‘  No  eye  should  look  upon  the  deed 
which  I  meditate.  Fare  you  well,  Jean-Marie.  I  speak  as 
a  man  forewarned.’ 

Jean-Marie  returned  to  his  problems. 

Standing  at  the  Queen’s  door,  he  had  his  plan  cut  and 
dried.  When  the  preacher  should  be  brought  in  by  the 
usher,  he  would  require  a  word  with  him  before  he  pulled 
back  the  curtain.  He  does  not  confess  to  it  in  his 
memoirs  ;  but  I  have  no  doubt  what  that  word  was  to 
have  been.  Remember  that  there  was  this  much  sound 
sense  on  the  boy’s  side  :  he  knew  very  well  that  the  Queen 
had  thought  more  of  Mr.  Knox  than  she  had  cared  to 
allow.  His  inferences  may  have  been  ridiculous;  it  is  one 
thing  to  read  into  the  hearts  of  kings,  another  to  dispose 
them.  However  that  may  be,  the  Captain  of  the  Guard 
had  received  his  orders.  He  himself  introduced  the  great 
man  into  the  antechamber,  and  led  him  directly  to  the 
entry  of  the  Queen’s  closet.  Mr.  Erskine,  who  held  this 
office,  was  also  Master  of  the  Pages,  and  no  mere  gentle¬ 
man-usher.  He  brushed  aside  his  subaltern  with  no  more 
ceremony  than  consists  in  a  flack  of  the  ear,  and,  ‘  Back, 
thou  French  pullet  —  the  Queen’s  command.’  Immediately 
afterwards  he  announced  at  the  door,  ‘  Madam,  Mr.  Knox, 
to  serve  your  Majesty.’ 

‘  Enter  boldly,  Mr.  Knox,’  he  bade  his  convoy  then,  and 
departed,  leaving  him  in  the  doorway  face  to  face  with  the 
Queen  of  Scots. 

She  sat  in  a  low  chair,  tapestry  on  her  knees,  her  needle 
flying  fast ;  in  her  white  mourning,  as  always  when  she 
had  her  own  way,  she  looked  a  sweet  and  wholesome 
young  woman.  Mary  Livingstone,  self-possessed  and  busy, 


72 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


was  on  a  higher  chair  behind  her,  watching  the  work ; 
Mary  Fleming  in  the  bay  of  the  window,  Lord  Lindsay 
near  by  her,  leaning  against  the  wall.  Mary  Beaton  and 
Mary  Seton  were  on  cushions  on  the  floor,  each  holding  an 
end  of  the  long  frame.  Mr.  Secretary  regardful  by  the 
door,  and  a  lady  who  sat  at  a  little  table  reading  out  of 
Percef orest  or  Amadis,  or  some  such,  completed  as  quiet 
an  interior  as  you  could  wish  to  see.  While  Mr.  Knox 
stood  primed  for  his  duty,  scrutinised  by  half  a  dozen  pair 
of  eyes,  the  Queen  alone  did  not  lift  hers  up,  but  picked 
at  a  knot  with  her  needle. 

The  tangle  out,  ‘  Let  Mr.  Knox  take  heart,’  she  said, 
with  the  needle’s  eye  to  the  light  and  the  wool  made  sharp 
by  her  tongue  :  ‘  here  he  shall  find  a  few  busy  girls  putting 
to  shame  some  idle  men.’  Seeing  that  Mr.  Knox  made  no 
sign  —  as  how  should  he,  who  needed  not  take  what  he  had 
never  lost  ?  —  she  presently  turned  her  head  and  looked 
cheerfully  at  him,  her  first  sight  of  a  redoubtable  critic. 
Singly  her  thoughts  came,  one  on  the  heels  of  the  other : 
her  first,  This  man  is  very  tall ;  the  second,  He  looks 
kind;  the  third,  He  loves  a  jest;  the  fourth,  which  stayed 
long  by  her,  The  deep  wise  eyes  he  hath !  In  a  long  head 
of  great  bones  and  little  flesh  those  far-set,  far-seeing,  large, 
considering  eyes  shone  like  lamps  in  the  daylight —  full  of 
power  at  command,  kept  in  control,  content  to  wait.  They 
told  her  nothing,  yet  she  saw  that  they  had  a  store  behind. 
No  doubt  but  the  flame  was  there.  If  the  day  made  it 
mild,  in  the  dark  it  would  beacon  men.  She  saw  that  he 
had  a  strong  nose,  like  a  raven’s  beak,  a  fleshy  mouth, 
the  beard  of  a  prophet,  the  shoulders  and  height  of  a 
mountaineer.  In  one  large  hand  he  held  his  black  bonnet, 
the  other  was  across  his  breast,  hidden  in  the  folds  of  his 
cloak.  There  was  no  man  present  of  his  height,  save 
Lethington,  and  he  looked  a  weed.  There  was  no  man 
(within  her  knowledge)  of  his  patience,  save  the  Lord 
James  ;  and  she  knew  him  at  heart  a  coward.  Peering 
through  her  narrowed  eyes  for  those  few  seconds,  she  had 
the  fancy  that  this  Knox  was  like  a  ragged  granite  cross, 
full  of  runes,  wounded,  weather-fretted,  twisted  awry.  Yet 
her  four  thoughts  persisted  :  He  is  very  tall,  he  looks  kind, 


CH.  V 


FLIES  AT  THE  HONEYPOT 


73 


he  loves  a  jest  —  and  oh!  the  deep  wise  eyes  he  hath! 
Nothing  that  he  did  or  spoke  against  her  afterwards 
moved  the  roots  of  those  opinions.  She  may  have  feared, 
but  she  never  shrank  from  the  man. 

Now  she  took  up  her  words  where  she  had  left  them. 

‘You,  who  love  not  idleness,  Mr.  Knox,  are  here  to  help 
me,  I  hope  ?  ’ 

He  blinked  before  he  answered.  ‘Madam,’  then  said 
he,  I  am  here  upon  your  summons,  since  subjects  are 
bound  to  obey,  that  I  may  know  your  pleasure  of  me.’ 
‘A  sweet,  dangerous  woman,’  he  thought  her  still ;  but  he 
added  now,  ‘  And  of  all  these  dainty  ladies  the  daintiest, 
and  the  shrewdest  reader  of  men.’ 

‘  Come  then,  Mr.  Knox,  and  be  idle  or  busy  as  likes 
you  best,’  she  said,  and  resumed  her  needle.  ‘  I  am  glad 
to  know,’  she  added,  ‘  that  you  consider  yourself  bound 
anyways  to  me.’ 

#  He,  not  moving  from  his  doorway  —  making  it  serve 
him  rather  for  a  pulpit  —  when  he  had  thought  for  awhile, 
with  quickly  blinking  eyes,  began  :  ‘  I  think  that  you  seek 
to  put  me  to  some  question,  madam,  but  without  naming 
it.  I  think  that  you  would  have  me  justify  myself  without 
cause  cited.  But  this  I  shall  not  do,  lest  afterwards  come 
in  your  Clerk  of  Arraigns  and  I  find  myself  prejudged 
upon  my  plea  before  I  am  accused  at  all.  Why,  in  this 
matter  of  service  of  subjects,  we  are  all  in  a  manner  bound 
upon  it.  Many  masters  must  we  obey :  as  God  and  His 
stewards,  who  are  girded  angels;  and  Death  and  his 
officers,  who  are  famines,  diseases,  fires,  and  the  swords 
of  violent  men,  suffered  by  God  for  primordial  reasons ; 
and  next  the  prince  and  his  ministers,  among  whom  I 
reckon - ’ 

‘  Oh,  sir  ;  oh,  sir/  she  cried  out,  ‘  you  go  too  fast  for  me  !  ’ 

‘  Madam,’  said  he,  ‘  I  speak  with  respect,  but  I  do  think 
you  go  as  fast  as  I.’ 

She  laughed.  ‘  I  am  young,  Mr.  Knox,  and  go  as  fast 
as  I  can.  Do  you  blame  me  for  that  ?  ’ 

‘  I  may  not,  madam,’  said  he  steadily,  ‘  unless  to 
remember  that  you  sit  in  an  old  seat  be  to  blame  you.’ 

‘  I  sit  at  my  needlework  now,  sir.’ 


7  4 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


He  saw  her  fine  head  bent  over  the  web,  a  gesture 
beautifully  meek,  but  said  he :  ‘I  suspect  the  seat  is 
beneath  your  Majesty.  It  is  hard  to  win,  yet  harder  to 
leave  when  the  time  comes.’ 

‘  But,’  said  she,  ‘  if  I  put  aside  my  seat,  if  I  waive  my 
authority,  how  would  you  consider  me  then  ?  ’ 

He  turned  his  head  from  one  to  another,  and  then 
gazed  calmly  at  the  Queen.  ‘Madam,’  he  said,  ‘if  you 
waive  your  authority  and  put  aside  your  seat,  the  which 
(you  say)  you  have  from  God,  why  then  should  I  consider 
you  at  all  ?  ’ 

When  the  room  stirred,  she  laughed,  but  it  was  to 
conceal  her  vexation.  She  pricked  her  lip  with  her 
needle. 

‘  I  see  how  it  is  with  you  and  your  friends,  sir,’  she  said 
drily.  ‘  You  love  not  poor  women  in  any  wise.  When  we 
are  upon  thrones  you  call  us  monsters,  and  when  we  come 
off  them  you  think  us  nothing  at  all.  It  is  hard  to  please 
you.  And  yet  —  you  have  known  women.’ 

‘  A  many,’  said  he. 

‘  And  of  these  some  were  good  women  ?  ’ 

‘  There  was  one,  madam,  the  best  of  women.’ 

Her  eyes  sparkled.  ‘Ah!  You  speak  kindly  at  last! 
You  loved  my  mother!  Then  you  will  love  me.  Is  it 
not  so  ? 

He  was  silent.  This  was  perilous  work. 

‘  I  have  sent  for  you,  Mr.  Knox,’  she  continued,  ‘  not  for 
dialectic,  in  which  I  can  see  I  am  no  match  for  you ;  but 
to  ask  counsel  of  you,  and  require  a  benevolence,  if  you  are 
ready  to  bestow  it.  We  will  talk  alone  of  these  things, 
if  you  will.  Adieu,  mes  enfants  ;  gentlemen,  adieu.  I 
must  speak  privately  with  Mr.  Knox.’ 

What  had  she  to  say  to  him  ?  Not  he  alone  wondered  ; 
there  was  Master  Des-Essars  at  the  door  —  Master  Des- 
Essars,  who,  with  the  generosity  of  calf-love,  was  prepared 
to  surrender  his  rights  for  the  good  of  the  State.  Mary 
Livingstone,  to  whom  one  man,  lover  of  the  Queen,  was 
as  pitiable  as  another,  swept  through  the  ante-room 
without  a  word  for  anybody.  The  others  clustered  in 
the  bay,  whispering  and  wondering. 


CH.  V 


FLIES  AT  THE  HONEYPOT 


75 


But  as  to  Mr.  Knox,  when  those  two  were  alone,  she 
baffled  him  altogether  by  asking  him  to  intervene  in  the 
quarrel  between  the  Lords  Bothwell  and  Arran  :  baffled 
him,  that  is,  because  he  had  braced  himself  for  tears, 
reproaches,  and  what  he  called  ‘ yowling’  against  his 
*  Stinking  Pride  ’  sermon,  which  of  late  had  made  some  stir. 
In  that  matter  he  was  ready  to  take  his  stand  upon  the 
holy  hill  of  Sion ;  he  had  his  countermines  laid  against  her 
mines.  Yea,  if  she  had  cried  out  upon  the  book  of  the 
Monstrous  Regiment  itself,  he  had  his  pithy  retorts,  his 
citations  from  Scripture,  his  Aristotle,  his  Saint  Paul,  and 
Aquinas  —  for  he  did  not  disdain  that  serviceable  papist  — 
his  heavy  cavalry  from  Geneva  and  his  light  horsemen  from 
Ayrshire  greens.  But  she  took  no  notice  of  this  entrenched 
position  of  his :  she  drew  him  into  open  country,  then 
swept  out  and  caught  him  in  the  flank.  Choosing  to 
assume,  against  all  evidence,  that  he  had  loved  her  mother, 
assuming  that  he  loved  her  too,  she  pleaded  with  him  to 
serve  her  well,  and  used  the  subtlest  flattery  of  all,  which 
was  to  take  for  granted  that  he  would  refuse  what  she 
beggeci.  This  was  an  incense  so  heady  that  the  flinty- 
edged  brain  was  drugged  by  it,  declined  ratiocination.  As 
she  pleaded,  in  low  urgent  tones,  which  cried  sometimes  as 
if  she  was  hurt,  and  thrilled  sometimes  as  though  she 
exulted  in  her  pure  desire,  he  listened,  sitting  motionless 
above  her,  more  moved  than  he  cared  afterwards  to  own. 
‘  For  peace’s  sake  I  came  hither,  young  as  I  am,  and 
because  I  desire  to  dwell  among  my  own  folk.  I  hoped 
for  peace,  and  do  think  that  I  ensued  it.  Have  I  vexed 
any  of  you  in  anything  ?  Have  I  oppressed  any  ?  ’  At 
such  a  time,  against  such  pleading,  he  had  it  not  in  his 
heart  to  cry  out,  ‘  Ay,  daily,  hourly,  you  vex,  thwart, 
and  offend  the  Lord’s  people.’ 

Seeing  him  silent,  pondering  above  her,  she  stretched 
out  her  arms  for  a  minute,  and  bewitched  him  utterly  with 
her  slow,  sad  smile.  ‘  If  a  girl  of  my  years  can  be  tyrant 
over  grave  councillors,  if  that  be  possible,  and  I  have  done 
it,  I  shall  not  be  too  stiff  to  ask  pardon  for  my  fault,  or  to 
come  to  you  and  your  friends,  Mr.  Knox,  to  learn  a  wiser 
way.  But  you  cannot  accuse  me.  I  see  you  answer 


BK.  I 


76  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

nothing,’  Whether  he  could  or  not,  he  did  not  at  that 
time. 

She  came  back  to  her  first  proposition.  ‘  Of  my  Lord 
of  Bothwell  I  know  only  this,’  —  she  seemed  to  weigh  her 
words,  —  ‘that  in  France  he  approved  himself  the  very 
honest  gentleman  whom  I  looked  to  find  him  here.  He  is 
not  of  my  faith ;  he  favours  England  more  than  I  am  as 
yet  prepared  to  do ;  he  is  stern  upon  the  border.  What 
his  quarrel  may  be  with  my  Lord  of  Arran  I  do  not  care 
to  inquire.  I  pray  it  may  be  soon  ended,  for  the  peace’s 
sake  which  I  promised  myself.  Why  should  I  be  unhappy? 
You  cannot  wish  it.’ 

‘  Madam,’  he  said,  in  his  deep  slow  voice,  ‘  God  knoweth 
I  do  not.’ 

She  looked  down  ;  she  whispered,  ‘  You  are  kind  to  me. 
You  will  help  me  ?  ’ 

‘Madam,’  he  said,  ‘God  being  with  me,  I  will.’  She 
looked  up  at  him  like  a  child,  held  out  her  hand.  He  took 
it  in  his  own ;  and  there  it  lay  for  a  while  contented. 

Upon  this  fluttering  moment  the  Lord  James,  walking 
familiarly  in  king’s  houses,  entered  with  a  grave  inclination 
of  the  head.  The  Queen  was  vexed,  but  she  was  ready, 
and  resumed  her  hand.  Mr.  Knox  was  not  ready.  He 
stiffened  himself,  and  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  :  no  words 
came.  The  Lord  James  went  solemnly  to  his  side  and  put 
a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  The  Queen’s  eyes  flashed. 

‘  Madam,’  he  said,  ‘  I  am  glad  that  my  friend  Mr.  Knox 
should  be  here.’ 

‘Upon  my  word,  my  lord,’  cried  the  Queen  in  a  rage, 
‘  why  should  you  be  glad,  or  what  has  your  gladness  to  do 
with  the  matter?  ’  Mr.  Knox,  before  she  spoke,  had  gently 
disengaged  himself ;  now  he  made  her  a  deep  obeisance  and 
took  his  leave  —  not  walking  backwards.  ‘  That  is  a  true 
man,’  was  her  judgment  of  him,  and  never  substantially 
altered.  What  he  may  have  thought  of  her,  if  he  after¬ 
wards  discovered  how  she  had  used  him  here,  is  another 
question.  He  set  about  doing  her  behests,  at  any  rate. 
There  was  a  probability  that  my  Lord  Bothwell  would  show 
himself  at  Court  again  before  many  days,  and  without 
direct  invitation  of  hers. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  FOOL’S  WHIP 

After  a  progress  about  the  kingdom,  which  she  thought 
it  well  to  make  for  many  reasons  —  room  for  the  pacifying 
arm  of  Mr.  Knox  being  one  —  it  befell  as  she  had  hoped. 
Speedily  and  well  had  the  preacher  gone  to  work  :  the  Earl 
of  Arran  walked  abroad  without  a  bodyguard,  the  Earl  of 
Bothwell  showed  himself  at  Court  and  was  received  upon 
his  former  footing.  The  Queen  had  looked  sharply  at  him, 
on  his  first  appearance,  for  any  sign  of  a  shameful  face ; 
there  was  not  to  be  seen  the  shadow  of  a  shade.  It  is  not 
too  much  to  say  that  she  would  have  been  greatly  disap¬ 
pointed  if  there  had  been  any  ;  for  to  take  away  hardihood 
from  this  man  would  be  to  make  his  raillery  a  ridiculous 
offence,  his  gay  humour  a  mere  symptom  of  the  tavern. 
No,  but  he  laughed  at  her  as  slyly  as  ever  before;  he 
reassumed  his  old  pretensions,  he  gave  back  no  inch  of 
ground  —  and,  remember,  in  an  affair  of  the  sort,  if  the  man 
holds  his  place  the  maid  must  yield  something  of  hers.  It 
is  bound  to  be  a  case  of  give  or  take.  She  felt  herself  in 
the  act  to  give,  was  glad  of  it,  and  concealed  it  from  Mary 
Livingstone.  When  this  girl,  her  bosom  friend  and  bed¬ 
fellow,  made  the  outcry  you  might  expect  of  her,  the 
Queen  pretended  extreme  surprise. 

‘  Do  you  suppose  this  country  the  Garden  of  Eden,  my 
dear?  Are  all  the  Scots- lords  wise  virgins,  careful  over 
lamp-wicks  ?  Am  I  Queen  of  a  Court  of  Love  by  chance, 
and  is  my  Lord  of  Bothwell  a  postulant?  You  tell  me 
news.  I  assure  you  he  is  nothing  to  me.’ 

77 


78 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


Now  these  words  were  spoken  on  a  day  when  he  had 
declared  himself  something  as  plainly  as  was  convenient. 
Exactly  what  had  happened  was  this  :  — 

On  the  anniversary-day  of  the  death  of  little  King 
Francis  of  France,  the  Queen  kept  the  house  with  her 
maids,  and  professed  to  see  nobody.  A  requiem  had  been 
sung,  the  faithful  few  attending  in  black  mourning.  She, 
upon  a  faldstool,  solitary  before  the  altar  at  the  pall,  looked 
a  very  emblem  of  pure  sorrow  —  exquisitely  dressed  in  long 
nun-like  weeds ;  no  relief  of  white  ;  her  face  very  pale, 
hands  thin  and  fragile,  only  one  ring  to  the  whole  eight 
fingers.  Motionless,  not  observed  to  open  her  lips,  wink 
her  eyes,  scarcely  seen  to  breathe,  there  she  stayed  when 
mass  was  done  and  the  chapel  empty,  save  for  women  and 
a  page  or  two. 

At  noon,  just  before  dinner,  she  walked  in  the  garden, 
kept  empty  by  her  directions  —  a  few  turns  with  Beaton 
and  Fleming,  and  Des-Essars  for  escort  —  then,  bidding 
them  leave  her,  sat  alone  in  a  yew-tree  bower  in  full  sun. 
It  was  warm  dry  weather  for  the  season. 

Presently,  as  she  sat  pensive,  toying  perhaps  with  grief, 
trying  to  recall  it  or  maintain  it  —  who  knows  ?  —  she  heard 
footsteps  not  far  off,  voices  in  debate;  and  looked  side¬ 
long  up  to  see  who  could  be  coming.  It  was  the  Earl  of 
Bothwell  who  showed  himself  first  round  the  angle  of 
the  terrace,  arm-in-arm  of  that  Lord  Arran  whom  she 
had  procured  to  be  his  friend ;  behind  these  two  were 
Ormiston,  some  Hamilton  or  another,  and  Paris,  Lord 
Bothwell’s  valet.  They  were  in  high  spirits  and  free  talk, 
those  two  lords,  unconscious  or  careless  of  her  privacy ; 
Bothwell  was  gesticulating  in  that  French  way  he  had  ; 
the  other,  with  his  head  inclined,  listened  closely,  and 
sniggered  in  spite  of  himself.  Both  were  in  cheerful 
colours ;  notably,  Bothwell  wore  crimson  cloth  with  a 
cloak  of  the  same,  a  purpoint  of  lace,  a  white  feather  in 
his  cap.  Arran  first  saw  the  Queen,  stopped  instantly, 
uncovered,  and  said  something  hasty  to  his  companion ; 
he  stared  with  his  light  fish-eyes  and  kept  his  mouth 
open.  Bothwell  looked  up  in  his  good  time  and  bared 
his  head  as  he  did  so.  It  seems  that  he  muttered  some 


CH.  VI 


THE  FOOL’S  WHIP 


79 


order  or  advice,  for  when  Lord  Arran  slipped  by  on  the 
tips  of  his  toes,  all  the  rest  followed  him ;  but  Lord 
v  Bothwell  walked  leisurely  over  the  grass  towards  the 
Queen,  gs  who  should  say,  ‘  I  am  in  the  wrong  —  in  truth 
I  am  a  careless  devil.  Well,  give  me  my  due;  admit  I 
am  not  a  timorous  devil.’ 

As  he  stood  before  her,  attentive  and  respectful  in  his 
easy  way,  she  watched  him  nearly,  and  he  waited  for  her 
words.  It  is  a  sign  of  how  they  stood  to  one  another  at 
this  time  that  she  began  her  speech  in  the  middle  —  as  if 
her  thoughts,  in  spite  of  herself,  became  at  a  point 
articulate. 

‘  You  also,  my  lord  !  ’ 

‘  Plait-il ? 1 

‘  Oh,  you  understand  me  very  well.’ 

‘  Madam,  upon  my  honour !  I  am  a  dull  dog  that  can 
see  but  one  thing  at  a  time.’ 

She  forced  herself  to  speak.  ‘  I  ask  you,  then,  if  this 
is  the  day  of  all  days  when  you  choose  to  pass  by  me  in 
your  festival  gear  ?  I  ask  if  you  also  are  with  the  rest 
of  them  ?  ’ 

He  made  as  if  he  would  spread  his  hands  out  —  the 
motion  was  enough.  It  said  —  though  he  was  silent  — 
‘  Madam,  I  am  no  better  than  other  men.’ 

‘Oh,  I  believe  it,  I  believe  it!  You  are  no  better 
indeed  ;  but  I  had  thought  you  wiser.’ 

He  caught  at  the  word,  and  rubbed  his  chin  over  it. 
‘  Hey,  my  faith,  madam  —  wiser !  ’ 

The  Queen  tapped  her  foot.  ‘  If  I  had  said  kinder,  I 
might  have  betrayed  myself  for  a  fool.  Kindness,  wisdom, 
generosity,  pity  !  In  all  these  things  I  must  believe  you 
to  be  as  other  men.  Is  it  not  so  ?  ’ 

Seeing  her  clouded  eyes,  he  did  not  affect  to  laugh  any 
more.  He  was  either  a  bad  courtier  or  one  supremely 
expert ;  for  he  spoke  as  irritably  as  he  felt. 

‘  Madam,  I  know  few  men  save  men  of  spirit,  therefore 
I  cannot  advise  you.  But  you  know  the  saw,  Come  cisuio 
sape  cost  minuzza  rape:  “The  donkey  bites  his  carrot  as 
well  as  he  knows.’’  Wisdom  is  becoming  to  a  servant , 
kindness,  generosity,  and  the  rest  of  these  high  virtues  are 


8o 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


the  ornament  of  a  master,  or  mistress.  Why,  madam,  if 
I  desire  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  shall  I  ever  get  it  by 
shivering  ?  Is  that  a  wise  reflection  ?  ’ 

She  clasped  her  hands  over  her  knee,  and  looked  at  her 
foot  as  she  swung  it  slowly ;  but  if  the  action  was  idle  the 
words  were  not.  4  If  I  asked  you,  my  lord,  to  wear  the 
dule  with  me  upon  this  one  day  of  the  year,  should  you 
refuse  me  ?  If  I  grieve,  will  you  not  grieve  with  me  ?  ’ 

He  never  faltered,  but  spoke  as  gaily  as  a  sailor  to  his 
lass.  ‘Faith  of  a  gentleman,  madam,  why  should  I  grieve 
—  except  for  that  you  should  grieve  still?  For  your 
grieving  there  may  be  a  remedy ;  and  as  for  me,  far  from 
grieving  with  you,  I  thank  the  kindly  gods.’ 

She  bit  her  lip  as  she  shivered.  ‘You  are  cruel,’  she 
said:  ‘you  are  cruel.  I  knew  it  before.  Your  heart  is 
cruel.  This  is  the  very  subtlety  of  the  vice.’ 

‘Not  so,  madam,’  he  answered  quietly;  ‘but  it  is 
dangerous  simplicity.  Do  you  not  know  why  I  give 
thanks  ?  —  I  think  you  do,  indeed.’ 

Very  certainly  she  thought  so  too. 

She  sat  on  after  he  was  gone,  twisting  her  fingers  about 
as  she  spun  her  busy  fancies ;  and  was  so  found  by  her 
maids.  Little  King  Francis  and  the  purple  pall  which 
signified  him  were  buried  for  that  day ;  and  after  dinner 
she  changed  her  black  gown  for  a  white.  It  was  at  going 
to  bed  that  night  that  she  had  rallied  Mary  Livingstone 
about  Scots  lords  and  wise  virgins,  and  declared  that  Lord 
Bothwell  was  nothing  to  her.  And  the  maid  believed  het 
just  as  far  as  you  or  I  may  do. 

Not  that  the  thing  was  grown  serious  by  any  means: 
the  maid  of  honour  made  too  much  of  one  possible  lover, 
and  the  Queen,  very  likely,  too  little.  The  difference 
between  these  two  was  this :  Mary  Livingstone  looked 
upon  her  Majesty’s  lovers  with  a  match-maker’s  eye,  but 
Queen  Mary  with  a  shepherding  eye.  The  flock  was 
everything  to  her.  Just  now,  for  example,  she  was 
anxious  about  certain  other  strays  ;  and,  as  time  wore  on 
to  the  dark  of  the  year,  she  began  to  be  impatient.  The 
Gordons,  said  her  brother  James,  were  playing  her  false; 
but  it  was  incredible  to  her  —  not  that  they  should  be  at 


CH.  VI 


THE  FOOL’S  WHIP 


8 1 


fault,  but  that  her  instinct  should  be  so.  She  could  have 
sworn  to  the  truth  of  that  fine  Lord  Gordon,  and  been 
certain  that  she  had  won  over  old  Huntly  at  the  last. 
The  mistake  —  if  she  was  mistaken  —  is  common  to  queens 
and  pretty  children,  who,  finding  themselves  in  the  centre 
of  their  world,  give  that  a  circumference  beyond  the  line 
of  sight.  Because  all  eyes  are  upon  them  they  think  that 
there  is  nothing  else  to  be  seen.  She  was  to  learn  that 
Huntly  at  Court  and  Huntly  in  Badenoch  were  two 
separate  persons;  so  said  the  Lord  James. 

‘  Sister,  alas !  I  fear  a  treacherous  and  stiff-necked 
generation’;  and  he  had  more  to  go  upon  than  he  chose 
her  to  guess  as  yet. 

So  far,  at  least,  she  had  to  admit  that  old  Huntly  was 
a  liar:  John  of  Findlater  was  never  brought  back.  Her 
messengers  returned  again  and  again,  saying,  ‘  The  Earl 
was  in  the  hills,’  or  ‘  The  Earl  was  hunting  the  deer,’  or 
‘  The  Earl  was  punishing  the  Forbeses.’  And  where  was 
her  fine  Lord  Gordon,  with  his  sea-blue,  hawk’s  eyes  ? 
She  was  driven  at  last  to  send  after  him  —  a  peremptory 
summons  to  meet  her  at  Dundee ;  but  he  never  came  — 
could  not  be  found  or  served  with  the  letter  —  was  believed 
to  be  with  the  Earl,  his  father,  but  had  been  heard  of  in 
the  west  with  the  Hamiltons,  etc.  etc.  The  face  of  Lord 
James  —  his  eyes  ever  upon  the  Earldom  of  Moray  — was 
sufficient  answer  to  her  doubts ;  and  when  she  turned  to 
Lord  Bothwell  for  comfort,  he  laughed  and  said,  remind¬ 
ing  her  of  a  former  conversation,  ‘  Prick  the  old  bladder, 
madam,  scatter  the  pease  ;  then  watch  warily  who  come  to 
the  feast.’ 

Then  a  certain  Lord  Ruthven  entered  her  field,  sent  for 
out  of  Gowrie  —  a  dour,  pallid  man,  with  fatality  pressing 
heavily  on  his  forehead.  It  seemed  to  weigh  his  brows 
over  his  eyes,  and  to  goad  him  at  certain  stressful  times 
to  outbursts  of  savagery  —  snarling,  tooth-baring  —  terrible 
to  behold.  He  hated  Huntly  as  one  Scots  lord  could  hate 
another,  for  no  known  reason. 

‘  You  ask  me  what  you  shall  do  with  Huntly,  madam  ? 
I  say,  hang  him  on  a  tree,  and  poison  crows  with  him. 
It  will  be  the  best  service  he  can  ever  do  you.’ 


82 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


He  said  this  at  the  council  board,  and  dismayed  her 
sorely.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  churned  his  spleen 
between  his  teeth  till  it  foamed  at  his  loose  lips. 

She  flew  to  the  comfort  of  her  maids:  here  was  her 
cabinet  of  last  resource  !  They  throned  her  among  them, 
put  their  heads  near  together,  and  considered  the  case  of 
Scotland.  Mary  Livingstone  could  see  but  one  remedy 
for  the  one  deep-set  disease.  Bothwell’s  broad  chest 
shadowed  all  the  realm  as  with  a  cloud  :  chase  that  away, 
you  might  get  a  glimpse  of  poor  Scotland ;  but  while  the 
dreadful  gloom  endured  the  Gordons  seemed  to  her  a 
swarm  of  gnats,  harmless  at  a  distance.  ‘  Let  them  starve 
in  their  own  quags,  my  dear  heart,’  she  said ;  ‘  you  will 
have  them  humble  when  they  are  hungry.  Theirs  is  the 
sin  of  pride  —  but,  O  Mother  of  Heaven,  keep  us  clean 
from  the  sin  that  laughs  at  sinning !  ’ 

Mary  Fleming  put  in  a  word  for  the  advice  of  Mr. 
Secretary  Lethington,  but  blushed  when  the  others  nudged 
each  other.  The  Secretary  was  known  to  be  her  servant. 
Mary  Beaton  said,  ‘  I  thought  we  were  to  speak  of 
Huntly  ?  Ma  belle  dame>  touch  his  heart  with  your  finger¬ 
tips.’ 

‘  So  I  would  if  I  knew  the  way,’  said  the  Queen,  frown¬ 
ing. 

‘  Send  him  back  his  bonny  boy  Adam,’  says  Beaton ; 
‘  I  undertake  that  he  will  plead  your  cause.  You  have 
given  him  good  reason.’ 

The  Queen  thought  well  of  this ;  so  presently  Adam 
Gordon  was  sent  north  as  legate  a  latere. 

Christmas  went  out,  Lent  drew  on,  the  months  passed. 
The  Ark  of  State  tossed  in  unrestful  waters,  but  young 
Adam  of  Gordon  came  not  again  with  a  slip  of  olive. 

‘  If  that  child  should  prove  untrue,’  said  the  Queen, 

‘  then  his  father  is  the  lying  traitor  you  report  him.’  This 
to  Mr.  Secretary  Lethington,  very  much  with  her  just  now, 
at  work  for  Mr.  Secretary  Cecil  of  England,  trying  his 
hardest  to  bring  about  a  meeting  between  his  mistress  and 
the  mistress  of  his  friend.  Lethington,  knowing  what  he 
did  know,  had  little  consolation  for  her ;  but  he  bore  word 


CH.  VI 


THE  FOOL’S  WHIP 


83 


to  his  master,  the  Lord  James,  that  the  Queen  was 
angering  fast  with  the  Gordons ;  a  very  little  more  and 
the  fire  would  leap. 

‘In  my  poor  judgment,’  he  said,  ‘the  kindling-spark 
will  be  struck  when  she  sees  the  scribbling  of  her  love- 
image.  She  hath  fashioned  a  very  Eros  out  of  George 
Gordon.’ 

‘  I  conceive,  Mr.  Secretary,’  said  the  Lord  James, 
making  no  sign  that  he  had  heard  him,  ‘  that  the  times 
are  ripe  for  our  budget  of  news.’ 

‘  I  think  with  your  lordship,’  the  Secretary  replied, 
‘  but  will  you  be  your  own  post-boy  ?  ’ 

‘  Ah !  I  am  a  dullard,  Mr.  Secretary,’  said  my  lord. 
‘Your  mind  forges  in  front  of  mine.’ 

He  was  fond  of  penning  his  agents  in  close  corners. 
Let  them  be  explicit  since  he  would  never  be.  Lethington 
gulped  his  chagrin. 

‘  My  meaning  was,  my  lord,  that  it  will  advantage  you 
more  to  confirm  than  to  spread  your  news  concerning  the 
Lord  Gordon.  Whoso  tells  her  Majesty  a  thing  to  anger 
her,  I  have  observed  that  he  will  surely  receive  some  part 
of  her  wrath.  Not  so  the  man  who  is  forced  to  admit  the 
truth  of  a  report.  He,  on  the  contrary,  gains  trust;  for 
delicacy  in  a  courtier  outweighs  integrity  with  our  mistress. 
Therefore  let  the  Duke  bring  the  news,  and  do  you  wait 
until  you  can  bow  your  head  over  it.  Perhaps  I  speak 
more  plainly  than  I  ought.’ 

‘I  think  you  do,  sir,  indeed,’  says  the  Lord  James,  and 
lacerates  his  Lethington. 


There  was  a  masque  upon  Shrove  Tuesday,  the  last  day 
of  Carnival,  and  much  folly  done,  which  ended,  like  a 
child’s  romp,  in  a  sobbing  fit.  Amid  the  lights,  music, 
laughter  of  the  throng,  the  Queen  and  her  maids  braved  it 
as  saucy  young  men,  trunked,  puffed,  pointed,  trussed  and 
doubleted;  short  French  cloaks  over  one  shoulder,  flat 
French  caps  over  one  ear.  Mary  Livingstone  was  the 
properest,  being  so  tall,  Mary  Fleming  the  least  at  ease, 


84 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


trimmest,  most  assured  little  gallant  that  ever  you  saw ; 
and  yet,  by  that  art  she  had,  that  extraordinary  tact,  never 
more  a  queen  than  when  now  so  much  a  youth.  Her 
trunks  were  green  and  her  doublet  white  velvet ;  her  cloak 
was  violet  threaded  with  gold.  Her  cap  was  as  scarlet  as 
her  lips ;  but  there  was  no  jewel  in  her  ear  or  her  girdle  to 
match  her  glancing  eyes.  By  a  perverse  French  courtesy, 
which  became  them  very  ill,  such  men  as  dared  to  do  it, 
or  had  chins  to  show,  were  habited  like  women.  Queen 
Mary  led  out  Monsieur  de  Chatelard  in  a  ruff  and  hooped 
gown  ;  Des-Essars  made  a  nun  of  himself,  most  demure  and 
most  uncomfortable ;  Mary  Fleming  chose  the  Earl  of 
Arran  —  the  only  Scot  in  the  mummery — a  shepherdess 
with  a  crook.  Mary  Livingstone  would  not  dance.  ‘  Never, 
never,  never !  ’  cried  she.  ‘  Let  women  ape  men,  as  I  am 
doing :  the  thing  is  natural ;  we  would  all  be  men  if  we 
could.  But  a  man  in  a  petticoat,  a  man  that  can  blush  — 
ah,  bah  !  pourriture  de  France  !  ’ 

That  night,  rotten  or  not,  Monsieur  de  Chatelard  played 
the  French  game.  Queen  Mary  held  him,  led  him  about, 
bowed  where  he  curtsied,  stood  while  he  sat.  He  grew 
bolder  as  the  din  grew  wilder ;  he  said  he  was  the  Queen’s 
wife.  She  thought  him  a  fool,  but  owned  to  a  kind  of  sneak¬ 
ing  tenderness  for  folly  of  the  sort.  He  called  her  his  dear 
lord,  his  sweet  lord,  said  he  was  faint  and  must  lean  upon 
her  arm.  He  promised  to  make  her  jealous — went  very 
far  in  his  part.  He  swore  that  it  was  all  a  lie — he  loved 
his  husband  only  :  ‘  Kiss  me,  dear  hub,  I  am  sick  of  love !  ’ 
he  languished,  and  she  did  kiss  his  cheek.  More  she 
would  not ;  indeed,  when  she  saw  the  old  Duke  of  Chatel- 
herault  struggling  through  the  crowd  about  the  doors,  she 
felt  that  here  was  a  chance  of  getting  out  of  a  tangle.  She 
flung  the  sick  monkey  off  and  went  directly  towards  the 
Duke.  He  had  come  to  town  that  day,  she  knew,  directly 
from  his  lands  in  the  west :  perhaps  he  would  know  some¬ 
thing  of  the  Gordons.  He  was  a  frail,  pink-cheeked  old 
man,  with  a  pointed  white  beard  and  delicate  hands ;  so 
simple  as  to  be  nearly  a  fool,  and  yet  not  so  nearly  but 
that  he  had  been  able  to  beget  Lord  Arran,  a  real  fool. 
When  he  understood  that  this  swaggering  young  prince 


CH.  VI 


THE  FOOL’S  WHIP 


§5 


was  indeed  his  queen,  he  gave  up  bowing  and  waving  his 
hands,  and  dropped  upon  his  knee,  having  very  courtly 
old  ways  with  him. 

‘  Dear  madam,  dear  my  cousin,  the  Lothians  show  the 
greener  for  your  abiding.  ’Tis  shrewish  weather  yet  in 
the  hills;  but  you  make  a  summer  here.’ 

*  Rise  up,  my  cousin,’  says  the  Queen,  ‘  and  come  talk 
with  me.’  She  drew  him  to  a  settle  by  the  wall.  ‘  What 
news  of  your  house  and  country  have  you  for  me  ?  ’ 

‘  I  hope  I  shall  content  your  Majesty,’  he  said,  rubbing 
his  fine  hands.  ‘We  of  the  west  have  been  junketing. 
We  have  killed  fatlings  for  a  marriage.’ 

She  was  interested,  suspecting  nothing.  ‘  Ah,  you  have 
made  a  marriage!  and  I  was  not  told!  You  used  me 
ill,  cousin.’ 

‘Madam,’  he  pleaded  somewhat  confusedly,  ‘it  was 
done  in  haste  :  there  were  many  reasons  for  that.  Take 
one  —  my  poor  health  and  hastening  years.  Nor  did  time 
serve  to  make  Hamilton  a  house.  It  was  a  fortalice, 
and  must  remain  a  fortalice  for  my  lifetime.  But  for 

your  Grace - ’  He  stopped,  seeing  that  she  did  not 

listen. 

She  made  haste  to  turn  him  on  again.  ‘Whom  did 
you  marry  ?  Not  my  Lord  of  Arran,  for  he  is  pranking 
here.  And  you  design  him  for  me,  if  I  remember.’ 

‘  Oh,  madam !  ’  He  was  greatly  upset  by  such  plain 
talk.  ‘  No,  no.  It  was  my  daughter  Margaret.  My 
son  Arran!  Ah,  that’s  a  greater  thing.  My  daughter 
Margaret,  madam  — —  ’ 

‘Yes,  yes.  But  the  man  —  the  man  !  ’ 

‘  Madam,  the  Lord  of  Gordon  took  her.’  He  beamed 
with  pride  and  contentment.  ‘Yes,  yes,  the  Lord  of 
Gordon  —  a  pact  of  amity  between  two  houses  not  always 
too  happily  engaged.’ 

There  is  no  doubt  she  blenched  at  the  name  —  moment¬ 
arily,  as  one  may  at  a  sudden  flash  of  lightning.  She  got 
up  at  once.  ‘  I  think  you  have  mistook  his  name,  cousin. 
His  name  is  Beelzebub.  He  is  called  after  his  father. 
She  left  him  holding  his  head,  and  went  swiftly  towards 

the  door, 


86  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  i 

The  dreary  Chatelard  crept  after  her.  ‘My  prince — - 
my  lord  !  ’ 

‘No,  no;  I  cannot  hear  you  now.’  She  waved  him  off. 

Bowing,  he  shivered  at  his  plight ;  but  ‘  Courage,  my 
child,’  he  bade  himself :  ‘  “  Not  now ,”  she  saith.’ 

All  dancing  stopped,  all  secret  talk,  all  laughing,  teas¬ 
ing,  and  love-making.  They  opened  her  a  broad  way. 
The  Earl  of  Bothwell  swept  the  floor  with  his  thyrsus :  he 
was  disguised  as  the  Theban  god.  But  she  cried  out  the 
more  vehemently,  ‘No,  no!  I  am  pressed;  I  cannot  hear 
you  now.  You  cannot  avail  me  any  more,’  and  flashed 
through  the  doorway.  ‘  Send  me  Livingstone  to  my 
closet,’  she  called  over  her  shoulder,  ‘  and  send  me  Leth- 
ington.’  She  ran  up  her  privy  stair,  and  waited  for  her 
servants,  tapping  her  foot,  irresolute,  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor. 

Mary  Livingstone  flew  in  breathless.  ‘  What  is  it  ? 
What  is  it,  my  lamb  ?  ’ 

‘Get  me  a  great  cloak,  child,  and  hide  up  all  this 
foolery;  and  let  Mr.  Secretary  wait  until  I  call  him.’ 

Mary  Livingstone  covered  her  from  neck  to  foot,  took 
off  the  scarlet  cap,  coifed  her  head  seemly,  brought  a  stool 
for  her  feet :  hid  the  boy  in  the  lady,  you  see,  and  all  done 
without  a  word,  admirable  girl ! 

The  Queen  had  been  in  a  hard  stare  the  while.  ‘Now 
let  me  see  M.  de  Lethington.  But  stay  you  with  me.’ 

‘  Ay,  till  they  cut  me  down,’  says  Livingstone,  and 
fetched  in  the  Secretary. 

She  began  at  once.  ‘  I  find,  Mr.  Secretary,  that  there 
is  room  for  more  knaves  yet  in  Scotland.’ 

‘Alack,  madam,’  says  he,  ‘yes,  truly.  They  can  lie 
close,  do  you  see,  like  mushrooms,  and  thrive  the  richlier. 
Knaves  breed  knavishly,  and  Scotland  is  a  kindly  nurse.’ 

‘  There  are  likely  to  be  more.  Here  hath  the  Duke 
married  his  daughter,  and  the  Lord  of  Huntly  that  brave 
son  of  his  whom  of  late  he  offered  to  me.  Is  this  knavery 
or  the  ecstasy  of  a  fool  ?  What !  Do  they  think  to  win 
from  me  by  insult  what  they  have  not  won  by  open 
dealing  ?  ’ 

Mr.  Secretary,  who  had  known  this  piece  of  news  for  a 


CH.  VI 


THE  FOOL’S  WHIP 


8; 


month  or  more,  did  not  think  it  well  to  overact  surprise. 
He  contented  himself  with,  ‘Upon  my  word!’  but  added, 
after  a  pause,  ‘  This  seems  to  me  rash  folly  rather  than  a 
reasoned  affront.’ 

The  Queen  fumed,  and  in  so  doing  betrayed  what  had 
really  angered  her.  ‘  Knave  or  fool,  what  is  it  to  me  ?  A 
false  fine  rogue  !  All  rogues  together.  Ah,  he  professed 
my  good  service,  declared  himself  worthy  of  trust — declared 
himself  my  lover!  Heavens  and  earth,  are  lovers  here  of 
this  sort  ?  ’ 

Mary  Livingstone  stooped  towards  her.  ‘Think  no 
more  of  him  —  ah  me,  think  of  none  of  them  !  They  seek 
not  your  honour,  nor  love,  nor  service,  but  just  the  sweet 
profit  they  can  suck  from  you.’ 

The  Queen  put  her  chin  upon  her  two  clasped  hands. 
‘I  have  heard  my  aunt,  Madame  de  Ferrara,  declare,’  she 
said,  with  a  metallic  ring  in  her  voice  which  was  new  to  it, 

‘  that  in  the  marshes  about  that  town  the  peasant  women, 
and  girls  also,  do  trade  their  legs  by  standing  in  the  lagoon 
and  gathering  the  leeches  that  fasten  upon  them  to  suck 
blood.  These  they  sell  for  a  few  pence  and  give  their 
lovers  food.  But  my  lovers  in  Scotland  are  the  leeches ; 
so  here  stand  I,  trading  myself,  with  all  men  draining  me 
of  profit  to  fatten  themselves.’ 

‘  Madam - ’  said  Lethington  quickly,  then  stopped. 

‘  Well  ?  ’  says  the  Queen. 

‘  I  would  say,  madam,  the  fable  is  a  good  one.  Gather 
your  leeches  and  sell  them  for  pence.  Afterwards,  if  it 
please  you,  trade  no  more  in  the  swamps,  but  royally,  in  a 
royal  territory.  Ah,  trade  you  with  princes,  madam !  I 
hope  to  set  up  a  booth  for  your  Majesty’s  commerce,  and 
to  find  a  chafferer  of  your  own  degree.’ 

She  understood  very  well  that  he  spoke  of  an  English 
alliance  for  her,  and  that  this  was  not  to  be  had  without  a 
husband  of  English  providing.  ‘  I  think  you  are  right,’ 
she  replied.  ‘  If  the  Queen  of  England,  my  good  sister, 
come  half-way  towards  me,  I  will  go  the  other  half.  This 
you  may  tell  to  Mr.  Randolph  if  you  choose.’ 

‘  Be  sure  that  I  tell  him,  madam.’ 

‘  Good  dreams  to  you,  Mr.  Secretary.’ 


88 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  1 


‘And  no  dreams  at  all  to  your  Majesty  —  but  sweet, 
careless  sleep  !  ’ 

The  Queen,  turning  for  consolation  to  her  Livingstone, 
won  the  relief  of  tears.  They  talked  in  low  tones  to  each 
other  for  a  little  while,  the  mistress’s  head  on  the  maid’s 
shoulder,  and  her  two  hands  held.  The  Queen  was  out 
of  heart  with  Scotland,  with  love,  with  all  this  skirting  of 
perils.  She  was  for  prudence  just  now  —  prudence  and 
the  English  road.  Then  came  in  the  tirewoman  for  the 
unrobing,  and  then  a  final  argument  for  England. 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  who  truly  (as  he  had  told  Des- 
Essars)  was  a  foredoomed  man,  lay  hidden  at  this  moment 
where  no  man  should  have  lain  unsanctified.  I  shall  not 
deal  with  him  and  his  whereabouts  further  than  to  say  that, 
just  as  Frenchmen  are  slow  to  see  a  joke,  so  they  are  loath 
to  let  it  go.  He  had  proposed  on  this,  of  all  nights  of  the 
year,  to  push  his  joke  of  the  ballroom  into  chamber- 
practice.  Some  further  silly  babble  about  ‘  wifely  duty  ’ 
was  to  extenuate  his  great  essay.  If  jokes  had  been  his 
common  food,  I  suppose  he  would  have  known  the  smell 
of  a  musty  one.  As  it  was,  he  had  to  suffer  in  the  fire 
which  old  Huntly  and  his  Hamilton-marriage  had  lit :  his 
joke  was  burnt  up  as  it  left  his  lips.  For  the  Queen’s 
words,  when  she  found  him,  clung  about  him  like  flames 
about  an  oil-cask,  scorched  him,  blistered  him,  shrivelled 
him  up.  He  fell  before  them,  literally,  and  lay,  dry  with 
fear,  at  her  discretion.  She  spurned  him  with  her  heel. 
‘Oh,  you  weed,’  she  said,  ‘not  worthy  to  be  burned,  go,  or 
I  send  for  the  maids  with  besoms  to  wash  you  into  the 
kennel.’  He  crept  away  to  the  shipping  next  day,  pressing 
only  the  hand  of  Des-Essars,  who  could  hardly  refuse  him. 
‘  His  only  success  on  this  miserable  occasion,’  the  young 
man  wrote  afterwards,  ‘  was  to  divert  the  Queen’s  rage  from 
Monsieur  de  Gordon,  and  to  turn  her  thoughts,  by  ever  so 
little  more,  in  the  direction  of  the  English  marriage.  He 
was  one  of  those  fools  whose  follies  serve  to  show  every 
man  more  or  less  ridiculous,  just  as  a  false  sonnet  makes 
sonneteering  jejune.’ 

Lent  opened,  therefore,  with  omens ;  and  with  more 


CH.  VI 


THE  FOOL’S  WHIP 


89 


came  Lady  Day  and  the  new  year.  The  Gordons,  being 
summoned,  did  not  answer ;  the  Gordons,  then,  were  put 
to  the  horn.  The  Queen  was  bitter  as  winter  against 
them,  with  no  desire  but  to  have  them  at  her  knees.  As 
for  lovers  and  their  loves,  after  George  Gordon,  after  the 
crowning  shame  of  Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  ice-girdled 
Artemis  was  not  chaster  than  she.  My  Lord  of  Bothwell, 
after  an  essay  or  two,  shrugged  and  sought  the  border ; 
the  Queen  was  all  for  high  alliances  just  now,  and  Mr. 
Secretary,  their  apostle,  was  in  favour.  He  was  hopeful, 
as  he  told  Mary  Fleming,  to  see  two  Queens  at  York ;  and 
who  could  say  what  might  not  come  of  that  ?  And  while 
fair  Fleming  wondered  he  was  most  hopeful,  for  like  a 
delicate  tree  he  needed  genial  air  to  make  him  bud.  You 
saw  him  at  such  seasons  at  his  best  —  a  shrewd,  nervous 
man,  with  a  dash  of  poetry  in  him.  The  Queen  of ’England 
always  inspired  him ;  he  was  frequently  eloquent  upon  the 
theme.  His  own  Queen  talked  freely  about  her  ‘good 
sister,’  wrote  her  many  civil  letters,  and  treasured  a  few 
stately  replies.  One  wonders,  reading  them  now,  that 
they  should  have  found  warmer  quarters  than  a  pigeon¬ 
hole,  that  they  could  ever  have  lain  upon  Queen  Mary’s 
bosom  and  been  beat  upon  by  her  ardent  heart.  Yet  so 
it  was.  They  know  nothing  of  Queen  Mary  who  know 
her  not  as  the  Huntress,  never  to  be  thrown  out  by  a  cold 
scent.  Mr.  Secretary,  knowing  her  well,  harped  as  long  as 
she  would  dance.  ‘  Ah,  madam,  there  is  a  golden  trader! 
Thence  you  may  win  an  argosy  indeed.  What  a  bargain 
to  be  struck  there  !  Sister  kingdoms,  sister  queens  —  oh, 
if  the  Majesty  of  England  were  but  lodged  in  a  man’s 
heart !  But  so  in  essence  it  is.  Her  royal  heart  is  like  a 
strong  fire,  leaping  within  a  frame  of  steel.  And  your 
Grace’s  should  be  the  jewel  which  that  fire  would  guard, 
the  Cor  Cordis ,  the  Secret  of  the  Rose,  the  Sweetness  in 
the  Strong  !  ’ 

Mary  Fleming,  glowing  to  hear  such  periods,  saw  her 
mistress  catch  light  from  them. 

‘  You  speak  well  and  truly,’  said  Queen  Mary.  ‘  I  would 
I  had  the  Queen  of  England  for  my  husband ;  I  would 
love  her  well.’  She  spoke  softly,  blushing  like  a  maiden. 


90 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


‘  Sister  and  spouse !  ’  cries  Lethington  with  ardour. 
‘  Sister  and  spouse  !  ’ 

For  the  sake  of  some  such  miraculous  consummation 
she  gave  up  all  thoughts  of  Don  Carlos,  put  away  the 
Archduke,  King  Charles,  the  Swedish  prince.  Her  sister 
of  England  should  marry  her  how  she  would.  Lethington, 
on  the  day  it  was  decided  that  Sir  James  Melvill  should  go 
to  London  upon  the  business,  knelt  before  his  sovereign  in 
a  really  honest  transport,  transfigured  in  the  glory  of  his 
own  fancy.  ‘  I  salute  on  my  knees  the  Empress  of  the 
Isles  !  I  touch  the  sacred  stem  of  the  Tree  of  the  New 
World !  ’ 

Very  serious,  very  subdued,  very  modest,  the  Queen 
cast  virginal  eyes  to  her  lap. 

‘  God  willing,  Mr.  Secretary,  I  will  do  His  pleasure  in 
all  things,’  she  said. 

The  Lord  James,  observing  her  melting  mood,  made  a 
stroke  for  the  Earldom  of  Moray.  Were  the  Gordons  to 
defy  the  Majesty  of  Scotland  ?  With  these  great  hopes 
new  born,  with  old  shames  dead  and  buried  —  never,  never  ! 
The  Queen  said  she  would  go  to  the  North  and  hound  the 
Gordons  out. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Gordon’s  bane 

On  the  morning  of  Lammas  Day  the  Queen  heard  mass  in 
the  Chapel  Royal  with  a  special  intention,  known  only  to 
herself.  Red  mass  it  should  have  been,  since  she  felt  sore 
need  of  the  Holy  Ghost ;  but  she  had  given  up  the  solemn 
ornament  of  music  for  the  sake  of  peace.  So  Father  Lesley 
read  the  office  before  the  very  few  faithful :  her  maids, 
Erskine,  Herries,  the  esquires,  the  pages,  the  French  Am¬ 
bassador,  the  Ambassador  of  Savoy  —  with  him  a  certain 
large,  full-blooded  Italian,  of  whom  there  will  be  something 
to  say  anon.  Mr.  Knox  had  been  scaring  off  the  waverers 
of  late:  the  Catholic  religion  was  languid  in  the  realm. 

She  knelt  before  the  altar  on  her  faldstool  very  stiffly, 
and  looked  more  solitary  than  she  felt.  Her  high  mood 
and  high  endeavour  still  holding,  there  was  but  one  man  in 
Scotland  who  could  make  her  feel  her  isolation,  make  her 
pity  herself  so  nearly  that  the  tears  filled  her  eyes.  Her 
brother  James  and  his  party,  ostentatiously  aloof,  she  could 
reckon  with.  All  was  said  of  them  long  ago  by  that  old 
friend  of  hers  now  facing  God  in  the  mass  :  ‘  Your  brother 
stands  on  the  left  of  your  throne ;  but  he  looks  for  ever  to 
the  right.’  With  this  key  to  the  cipher  of  my  Lord  James, 
what  mystery  in  his  sayings  or  doings  ?  Then  the  grim 
Mr.  Knox,  who  had  worked  her  secret  desires,  and  since 
then  railed  at  her,  scolded  her,  made  her  cry  —  she  had  his 
measure  too.  He  liked  her  through  all,  and  she  trusted 
him  in  spite  of  all :  at  a  pinch  she  could  win  him  over. 
Whom,  then,  need  she  consider?  The  Earl  of  Bothwell — • 

91 


92 


THE  QUEEN’S  OUAIR 


BK.  I 


ah,  the  Earl  of  Bothwell,  who  laughed  at  everything,  and 
had  looked  drolly  on  at  her  efforts  to  be  a  queen,  and 
chosen  to  do  nothing  to  help  or  hinder :  there  was  a  man 
to  be  feared  indeed !  She  never  knew  herself  less  a  queen 
or  more  a  girl  than  when  he  was  before  her.  Laughed 
he  or  frowned,  was  he  eloquent  or  dumb  as  a  fish,  he 
intimidated  her,  diminished  her,  drove  her  cowering  into 
herself  to  queen  it  alone.  Christ  was  not  so  near,  God  not 
so  far  off,  as  this  confident,  free-living,  shameless  lord. 
Therefore  now,  because  she  dared  not  falter  in  what  she 
was  about  to  do,  or  see  herself  less  than  she  desired  to  be, 
she  had  sent  him  into  Liddesdale  to  hold  the  Justice-Court, 
and  had  not  cared  even  to  receive  him  when  he  came  to 
take  his  leave.  Lady  Argyll,  who  had  stood  in  her  place, 
reported  that  he  had  gone  out  gaily,  humming  a  French 
air.  With  him  safely  away,  she  had  faced  her  duty  —  duty 
of  a  Prince,  as  she  conceived  it.  And  here  she  knelt  in 
prayer,  prone  before  the  Holy  Ghost  —  solitary  (but  that  is 
the  safeguard  of  the  King !)  —  and  searched  the  altar  for  a 
sign  of  assurance. 

Over  that  altar  hung  Christ,  enigmatic  upon  His  cross. 
The  red  priest  bent  his  head  down  to  his  book,  and  made 
God  apace. 

The  Queen’s  lips  moved.  ‘  My  Saviour  Christ,  I  offer 
Thee  the  intention  of  my  heart,  a  clean  oblation.  If  I  do 
amiss  in  error,  O  Bread  of  Heaven,  visit  it  not  upon  me. 
I  have  been  offended,  I  have  been  disobeyed ;  they  call 
upon  me  to  claim  my  just  requital.  But  be  not  Thou 
offended  with  me,  my  Lord,  and  pardon  Thou  my  dis¬ 
obedience.  As  for  my  punishment,  I  suffer  it  in  seeking 
to  punish.’ 

It  is  not  often  that  women  pray  in  words :  an  urgency, 
a  subjection,  a  passionate  reception  is  the  most  they  do  — 
and  the  best.  But  she  prayed  so  now,  because  she  felt  the 
need  of  justifying  herself  before  Heaven,  and  the  ability  to 
do  it.  For  Bothwell  was  in  far  Liddesdale,  and  she  on  her 
throne. 

In  three  days’  time  she  was  to  go  to  the  North ;  and, 
though  the  country  knew  it  not,  she  would  go  in  force  to 
punish  the  Gordons.  You  may  judge  by  her  prayers 


CH.  VII 


GORDON’S  BANE 


93 


whether  she  was  satisfied  with  the  work.  Plainly  she 
was  not.  Her  anger  had  had  time  to  cool;  she  might 
have  forgotten  the  very  name  of  the  clan,  except  that  their 
men  had  had  honest  faces,  and  that  two  of  them  had  cer¬ 
tainly  loved  her  once.  But  she  had  not  been  allowed  to 
forget :  the  record  remained,  held  up  ever  before  her  eyes 
in  the  white  hand  of  Lord  James.  Contumacy!  Con¬ 
tumacy  !  Old  Huntly  had  been  traitor  before,  when  he 
trafficked  with  the  enemies  of  her  mother,  and  tried  to 
sell  herself  to  the  English  king.  The  Gordons  would  not 
surrender;  they  had  mated  with  the  Hamiltons,  a  stock 
next  to  hers  for  the  throne.  Was  there  not  a  shameful  plot 
here  ?  Would  she  not  be  stifled  between  these  two  houses  ? 
Yes,  yes,  she  knew  all  that.  But  they  were  Catholics,  they 
had  shown  her  honest  faces,  two  of  them  had  loved  her. 
She  was  not  satisfied ;  she  must  have  a  sign  from  heaven. 

God  was  made,  the  bell  proclaimed  Him  enthroned, 
Queen  Mary  bowed  her  head.  Now,  now,  if  the  Gordons 
were  true  men,  let  God  make  a  sign  !  The  tale  was  told 
that  once,  when  a  priest  lifted  up  the  Host  above  his  head, 
the  thin  film  dissolved,  and  took  flesh  in  the  shape  of  a 
naked  child,  who  stood,  burning  white,  upon  the  man’s 
two  hands.  Let  some  such  marvel  fall  now!  Intimacies 
between  God  and  the  Prince  had  been  known.  She  hid 
her  face,  laid  down  her  soul ;  the  vague  swam  over  her,  the 
dark  —  a  swooning,  drowning  sense.  In  that,  for  a  moment, 
as  vivid  clouds  chased  each  other  across  her  field,  she  saw 
a  face,  a  shape  —  mocking  red  mouth,  vivacious,  satirical 
hands,  the  gleam  of  two  twinkling  eyes  :  Bothwell,  hued 
like  a  fiend,  shadowing  the  world.  She  shuddered  ;  God 
passed  over,  as  the  bell  called  up  the  people.  With  them 
she  lifted  her  head,  stiffened  herself.  The  spell  was  broken. 
Without  being  more  superstitious  than  her  brethren,  she 
may  be  pardoned  for  finding  in  this  experience  an  ominous 
beginning  of  adventure. 

Nevertheless,  she  so  faced  the  heights  of  her  task  that, 
on  the  day  appointed,  she  set  out  as  bravely  as  to  a  hunting 
of  stags.  Jeddart  pikes,  bowmen  from  the  Forest,  her 
Lothian  bodyguard  —  she  had  some  five  hundred  men 
about  her ;  too  many  for  a  progress,  too  few  to  make 


94 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


war.  She  herself  rode  in  hunting  trim,  with  two  maids, 
two  pages,  two  esquires ;  her  brother,  of  course,  in  com¬ 
mand  ;  with  him,  of  course,  the  Secretary.  At  fixed  points 
along  the  road  certain  lords  joined  her :  Atholl  at  Stirling, 
Glencairn  and  Ruthven  at  Perth,  these  with  their  com¬ 
panies.  Lying  at  Coupar-Angus,  at  Glamis,  at  Edzell,  her 
spirits  rose  as  she  breasted  the  rising  country,  saw  the  cloud- 
shadowed  hills,  the  swollen  rivers,  the  wind-swept  trees,  the 
sullen  moors,  the  rocks.  She  grew  happy  even,  for  motion, 
newness,  and  physical  exertion  always  excited  her,  and  she 
was  never  happy  unless  she  was  excited.  No  fatigue 
daunted  her.  She  sat  out  the  driving  days  of  rain,  bent 
neither  to  the  heat  nor  to  the  cold  fog.  She  was  always 
in  front,  always  looking  forward,  seemed  like  the  keen 
breath  of  war,  driven  before  it  as  the  wind  by  a  rain¬ 
storm.  Lethington  likened  her  to  Diana  on  Taygetus 
shrilling  havoc;  but  the  Lord  James  said:  ‘Such  simili¬ 
tudes  are  distasteful.  We  are  serious  men  upon  a  serious 
business.’  She  rode  astraddle  like  a  young  man,  longed 
for  a  breastplate  and  steel  bonnet.  She  made  Ruthven 
exercise  her  with  the  broadsword,  teach  her  to  stamp  her 
foot  and  cry,  ‘  Ha  !  a  touch  !  ’  and  cajoled  her  brother  into 
letting  her  sleep  one  night  afield.  Folded  in  a  military 
plaid,  so  indeed  she  did ;  and  watched  with  thrills  the  stars 
shoot  their  autumn  flights,  and  listened  to  the  owls  calling 
each  other  as  they  coursed  the  shrew-mice  over  the  moor. 
She  pillowed  her  head  on  Mary  Livingstone’s  knee  at  last, 
and  fell  asleep  at  about  three  o’clock  in  the  morning. 

In  the  grey  mirk  —  sharply  cold,  and  a  fine  mist  drizzling 
—  Lethington  and  his  master  came  to  rouse  her.  Mary 
Livingstone  lifted  a  finger  of  warning.  The  Queen  was 
soundly  asleep,  smiling  a  little,  with  parted  lips  and  the 
hasty  breathing  of  a  child.  Mary  Seton,  too,  was  deep, 
her  face  buried  in  her  arm.  The  two  men  looked  down  at 
the  group. 

‘  Come  away,  my  lord :  give  them  time,’  said  the 
Secretary. 

But  my  Lord  James  did  not  hear  him.  He  stood 
broodingly,  muttering  to  himself:  ‘A  girl’s  frolic — this 
romping,  fond  girl !  And  Scotland’s  neck  for  her  footstool 


CH.  VII 


GORDON’S  BANE 


95 


—  and  earnest  men  for  her  pastime.  O  King  eternal,  is  it 
just?  Man!’  he  said  aloud,  ‘there’s  no  reason  in  this.’ 

Mr.  Secretary  misunderstood  him,  not  observing  his 
wild  looks.  ‘  Give  them  a  short  half-hour,  my  lord.  There 
are  two  of  them  sleeping ;  and  this  poor  watcher  hath  the 
need  of  it.’ 

The  Lord  James  turned  upon  him.  ‘Who  sought  to 
have  women  sleeping  here  ?  Are  men  to  wait  for  the  like 
of  this?  Are  men  to  wait  for  ever?  She  should  have 
counted  the  cost.  I  shall  waken  her.  Ay !  let  her  have 
the  truth.’ 

‘  She  will  wake  soon  enough,’  says  Lethington,  ‘  and 
have  the  truth  soon  enough.’ 

The  Lord  James  gave  him  one  keen  glance.  ‘I  com¬ 
mand  here,  Mr.  Secretary,  under  the  Queen’s  authoritv. 
Bid  them  sound.’ 

The  trumpet  rang ;  the  Queen  stretched  herself,  moved 
her  head,  yawned,  and  sat  up.  She  was  wide  awake 
directly,  laughed  at  Livingstone  for  looking  so  glum,  at 
Seton’s  tumbled  hair.  She  kissed  them  both,  said  her 
prayers  with  Father  Roche,  and  was  ready  when  the  order 
to  march  was  given. 

When  she  came  to  Aberdeen  she  was  told  that  a  mes¬ 
senger  from  the  Earl  of  Huntly  was  waiting  for  her  with 
his  chief’s  humble  duty,  and  a  prayer  that  she  would  lodge 
in  his  castle  of  Strathbogie.  This  was  very  insolent  or 
very  foolish :  she  declined  to  receive  the  man.  Let  the 
Earl  and  his  son  Findlater  render  themselves  up  at  Stirling 
Castle  forthwith,  she  would  receive  them  there.  No  more 
tidings  came  directly;  but  she  learned  from  her  brother 
news  of  the  country  which  made  her  cheeks  tingle.  It 
was  the  confident  belief  of  all  the  Gordon  kindred,  she  was 
given  to  know,  that  her  Majesty  had  come  into  the  North 
to  marry  Sir  John  Gordon  of  Findlater.  He  was  to  be 
created  Earl  of  Moray  and  Duke  of  Rothesay  to  that  end. 
True  news  or  false,  she  was  in  the  mood  to  believe  it,  and 
cried  out,  with  hot  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  she  could  have  no 
peace  until  that  rogue’s  head  was  off.  Needing  no  prompter 
at  her  side,  she  took  instant  action,  marched  on  Inverness 
and  summoned  the  keys  of  the  castle.  They  told  her  that 


96 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


the  Lord  of  Findlater  was  keeper ;  none  could  come  in  but 
by  his  leave.  Findlater!  But  the  man  was  out  of  his 
mind !  She  grew  very  quiet  when,  after  many  repetitions 
of  it,  she  could  bring  herself  to  believe  this  report;  then 
she  sent  for  Lethington  and  bade  him  raise  the  country. 
The  counsel  was  her  brother’s,  and  meant  that  the  clans  — 
Forbeses,  Grants,  Macintoshes  —  were  to  be  supported  and 
turned  against  the  Gordons.  The  Lord  James  considered 
that  his  work  was  as  good  as  done.  So  did  the  captain  of 
the  castle  of  Inverness ;  and  rightly,  for  when  his  charge 
was  surrendered  he  was  hanged.  The  town  did  its  best  to 
appease  the  Queen  with  humble  addresses  and  crocks  full 
of  gold  pieces ;  but  she  concealed  from  nobody  now  that 
she  had  come  up  with  war  in  her  hands.  Captains  and  their 
levies  were  sent  for  from  the  south ;  roads  marked  out  for 
Kirkcaldy  of  Grange,  Lord  John  Stuart,  Hay  of  Ormiston ; 
rendezvous  given  at  Aberdeen.  And  presently  she  went 
down  to  meet  them,  full  of  the  purpose  she  had. 

Old  Huntly  came  out  to  watch.  They  saw  his  men, 
some  hundred  or  more,  in  loose  order  at  the  ford  of  Spey. 
Queen  Mary’s  heart  leapt  for  battle,  real  crossing  of  swords 
to  crown  all  this  feigning  and  waiting  ;  but  the  enemy  drew 
off  to  the  woods,  and  nobody  barred  her  road  to  Aberdeen. 
Uncomfortably  for  herself,  she  lodged  at  Spynie  on  the 
way,  where  Bishop  Patrick  of  Moray  made  her  very  wel¬ 
come.  He  was  Lord  Bothwell’s  uncle,  true  Hepburn,  a 
scapegrace  old  Catholic,  anathema  to  the  good  Lord  James, 
and  proud  of  it.  Something  of  Bothwell’s  gleam  was  in  his 
cushioned  eyes,  something  of  Bothwell’s  infectious  gaiety 
in  his  rich  laugh.  Like  Bothwell,  too,  he  was  a  mocker, 
who  saw  things  sacred  and  profane  a  uniform,  ridiculous 
drab,  shrugged  at  the  ruin  of  the  faith  in  Scotland,  and 
supposed  Huntly  had  been  paid  to  be  a  traitor.  The 
Queen’s  fine  temper  made  her  sensitive  to  depreciation  of 
the  things  she  strove  at ;  under  such  rough  fingers  she  was 
bruised.  She  felt  cheapened  by  her  intercourse  with  this 
bishop ;  and  not  only  so,  but  her  business  sickened  her. 
The  old  pagan  made  light  of  it. 

‘  ’Tis  but  a  day  in  the  hedgerows  for  ye,  madam.  Send 
your  terriers  —  Lethington  and  siclike  —  into  the  bury,  you 


CH.  VII 


GORDON’S  BANE 


97 


shall  see  the  Gordons  bolt  to  your  nets  like  rabbits,  and 
old  Huntly  squealing  loudest  of  all’ 

Now,  the  Gordons  had  been  fair  in  her  sight,  noble 
friends  and  hardy  foes.  But  if  George  Gordon  was  to 
squeal  like  a  rabbit,  then  war  was  playing  at  soldiers,  and 
she  a  tomboy  out  for  a  romp.  She  left  Spynie  feeling 
that  she  hated  the  Gordons,  hated  their  fault,  hated  their 
chastisement,  and  hated  above  all  men  under  the  tent-roof 
of  heaven  the  whole  race  of  Hepburn. 

‘Vile,  vile  scoffers  at  God  and  His  vicars!  They  make 
a  toy  of  me,  these  Hepburns.  Uncle  and  nephew  —  I  am  a 
plaything  for  them.’ 

‘Just  a  Honeypot,  madam,’  said  Livingstone,  and  was 
snapped  at  for  her  respect. 

‘  Am  I  “  Madam  ”  to  you  now  ?  What  have  I  done  to 
make  you  so  petulant  ?  ’ 

‘  I  wish  you  would  be  more  “  Madam  ”  to  the  Hepburns,’ 
replied  the  maid.  ‘  I  could  curse  the  whole  brood  of 
them.’ 


John  Gordon  defended  two  good  castles,  Findlater  and 
Auchindoune.  He  expected,  and  was  prepared  for,  a  siege ; 
but  when  the  reinforcements  came  up  from  the  Lowlands, 
somewhat  to  his  consternation  the  Queen  joined  them  at 
Aberdeen  and  hung  about  that  region  indefinitely,  as  if 
the  autumn  were  but  begun.  Perhaps  the  suspense,  the 
menace,  told  on  old  Huntly’s  nerves;  at  any  rate,  some¬ 
thing  brought  him  to  his  knees.  He  sent  petition  after 
petition,  promise  upon  promise ;  was  reported  by  Ormiston 
to  be  very  much  aged,  tremulous,  given  to  sobbing,  and 
when  not  so  engaged,  incoherent.  This  worthy  went  to 
Strathbogie,  hoping  to  surprise  him;  failed  to  find  him  at 
home,  but  saw  the  Countess  and  a  young  girl,  strangely 
beautiful,  the  Lady  Jean,  sole  unmarried  daughter  of  the 
house.  The  Countess  took  him  into  the  chapel. 

‘  Do  you  see  that,  Captain  Hay  ?  ’  says  she. 

‘What  in  particular,  ma’am  ?  ’ 

There  were  lighted  candles  on  the  altar,  a  cross,  the 
priest’s  vestments  of  cloth  of  gold  laid  ready.  She  pointed 
to  these  adornments. 


98 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  J 


‘  There  is  why  they  hunt  us  down,  Captain  Hay,  because 
my  lord  is  a  faithful  Christian  gentleman.  And  woe,’  cried 
she,  ‘woe  upon  her  who,  following  wicked  counsels,  per¬ 
secutes  her  own  holy  religion  !  It  had  been  better  for  her 
that  she  had  never  been  born.  Tell  your  mistress  that. 
Tell  her  that  Gordon’s  bane  is  her  own  bane.  Ah,  tell 
her  that.’ 

He  repeated  the  piece  to  the  Queen  in  council,  and  she 
received  it  in  a  cold  silence,  looking  furtively  round  about 
her  at  the  lords  present,  for  all  the  world  (says  Hay  of 
Ormiston)  as  if  she  would  see  whether  they  believed  the 
words  or  not.  Her  brother  sat  on  her  left,  Morton  the 
Chancellor  on  her  right ;  Argyll  was  there,  Ruthven,  Atholl, 
Cassilis,  Eglinton.  Not  one  of  them  looked  up  from  the 
table,  or  saw  her  anxious  peering.  Atholl  whispered 
Cassilis  without  moving  his  head,  and  Cassilis  nodded  and 
stared  on.  What  did  she  think  during  that  constrained 
silence  ?  Gordon’s  bane  her  own  bane  !  Could  it  be  true  ? 
Perhaps  the  gibe  of  old  Bishop  Hepburn  came  to  her  timely 
help  :  ‘  Rabbits  in  a  bury,  and  old  Huntly  squealing  first 
and  loudest.’ 

She  threw  up  her  head,  like  a  fretful  horse.  ‘  My  lords,’ 
she  said  in  her  ringing,  boyish  voice,  ‘you  have  heard  the 
message  sent  me  by  the  Countess  of  Huntly.  I  am  not  of 
her  mind.  Gordon  has  tried  to  be  my  bane,  but  is  not  so 
now.  I  think  Gordon’s  bane  is  Gordon’s  self,  and  fear  not 
what  he  can  do  against  me.  And  if  not  I,  why  need  you 
fear  ?  Take  order  now,  how  best  to  make  an  end  of  it  all.’ 
Order  was  taken. 

Huntly  was  summoned  before  the  council,  and  sent  his 
wife.  The  Queen  would  not  see  her.  The  royal  forces 
moved  out  of  Aberdeen;  John  Gordon  cut  to  pieces  an 
outlying  party ;  then  the  Earl  joined  hands  with  his  son, 
and  the  pair  marched  on  Aberdeen.  The  fight  was  on  the 
rolling  hills  of  Corrichie,  down  in  the  swampy  valley 
between,  over  and  up  a  burn.  Their  cry  of  ‘  Aboyne  ! 
Aboyne  !  ’  bore  the  Gordons  into  battle  ;  their  pride  made 
them  heroic ;  their  pride  caused  them  to  fall.  It  was  a 
case,  one  of  the  first,  of  the  ordnance  against  the  pipes. 
No  gallantry  —  and  they  were  gallant;  no  screaming  of 


CH.  VII 


GORDON’S  BANE 


99 


music,  no  slogan  nor  sword-work,  nor  locking  of  arms, 
could  hold  out  against  Kirkcaldy’s  cannon  or  Lord  James’s 
horse.  They  huddled  about  their  standard  and  so  died ; 
some  few  fled  into  the  lonely  hills ;  but  Huntly  was  taken, 
and  two  of  his  tall  sons,  and  all  three  brought  to  the  Queen. 
John  of  Findlater  and  Adam  were  in  chains;  the  old  man 
needed  none,  for  he  was  dead.  They  say  that  when  he 
was  taken  he  was  frantic,  struggled  with  his  captors  to  the 
last,  induced  so  an  apoplexy,  stiffened  and  died  in  their 
arms.  They  guessed  by  the  weight  of  him  that  he  was 
dead.  All  this  they  told  her.  She  neither  looked  at  the 
body  nor  chose  to  see  the  two  prisoners  ;  received  the  news 
in  dull  silence.  ‘  Where  is  the  Lord  Gordon  ?  ’  She  did 
ask  that ;  and  was  told  that  he  had  not  been  engaged. 

‘  Coward  as  well  as  traitor,’  she  gloomed ;  ‘  what  else  is 
left  him  to  adorn  ?  ’ 

‘  Madam,  tumbril  and  gallows,’  croaked  Ruthven,  like  a 
hoody  crow. 

Next  morning  she  awoke  utterly  disenchanted  of  the 
whole  affair.  Nothing  would  content  her  but  to  be  quit  of 
it.  ‘  I  seem  to  smell  of  blood  and  filthy  reek,’  she  said  to 
her  brother  James.  ‘Take  what  measures  you  choose. 
Ruin  the  ruins  to  your  heart’s  content.  The  house  was 
Catholic,  and  I  suppose  the  stones  and  mortar  are  abomin¬ 
able  in  your  eyes.  Pull  them  down  ;  do  as  you  choose  — 
but  let  me  go.’ 

He  asked  her  desire  concerning  the  prisoners.  This 
caught  villain  Findlater,  for  instance. 

‘You  seek  more  blood  ?’  she  asked  bitterly.  ‘Take  his, 
then.  He  has  had  his  fill  of  it  in  his  day ;  now  let  him 
afford  you  a  share.’ 

Adam  Gordon  ?  She  took  fire  at  his  name.  ‘  You  shall 
not  touch  a  hair  of  his  head.  I  do  not  choose  —  I  will  not 
suffer  it.  He  is  for  me  to  deal  with.’ 

He  swore  that  she  should  be  obeyed ;  but  she  called  in 
Lethington,  and  put  the  lad  in  his  personal  charge,  to  be 
brought  after  her  to  Stirling.  At  this  time  Lethington  was 
the  only  man  she  could  trust. 

Lastly,  her  brother  hinted  at  the  reward  of  his  humble 
services  to  her  realm. 


IOO 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


‘  Oh,  yes,  yes,  brother,  you  shall  have  your  bonny  earl¬ 
dom.  God  knows  how  you  have  wrought  for  it.  But  if 
you  keep  me  here  one  more  hour,  I  declare  I  shall  bestow 
it  on  Mr.  Secretary.’ 

He  thanked  her,  saying  that  he  hoped  to  deserve  such 
condescension  by  ever  closer  attention  to  her  business. 
She  chafed  and  fidgeted  till  he  was  gone,  then  set  about 
her  escape.  With  a  very  small  escort,  she  pushed  them  to 
the  last  extreme  in  her  anxiety  to  be  south. 

There  should  have  been  something  of  the  pathetic  in 
this  struggle  of  a  girl  to  get  out  of  throne-room  and  council- 
chamber  ;  one  might  almost  hear  the  shrilling  of  wings ; 
but  Scots  gentlemen  fearful  of  their  treadings  must  be 
excused  for  disregarding  it.  They  told  her  at  Dundee 
that  the  Duke  of  Chatelherault  lay  there,  awaiting  her 
censures.  Hateful  reminder ! 

‘  What  can  he  want  with  me  at  such  an  hour,  in  such  a 
place  as  this  ?  ’ 

‘  Madam,  it  is  for  his  son-in-law’s  sake  he  hath  come 
so  far.’ 

She  flamed  forth  in  her  royalest  rage.  ‘  Is  the  Lord 
Gordon  so  poor  in  heart  ?  Can  he  not  beg  for  himself  ? 
Can  he  not  lie  ?  Can  he  not  run  ?  He  can  hide  himself, 
I  know,  while  his  kinsmen  take  the  field.  Let  him  learn  to 
whine  also,  and  then  he  will  be  armed  cap-a-pie .’  The  old 
Duke  was  refused  :  let  the  Lord  Gordon  surrender  himself 
at  Stirling  Castle. 

Thither  went  she,  shivering  in  the  cold  which  followed 
her  late  fires ;  and  sat  in  the  kingly  seat  to  make  an  end  of 
the  Gordons.  Thither  then  came  the  young  lord  whom 
she  had  once  chosen  to  bewitch,  walking  upright,  without 
his  sword.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  her  face  when 
he  stood  before  her  ;  nor  could  she  restrain  her  fury,  though 
many  were  present ;  no,  but  she  leaned  forward,  holding 
by  the  balls  of  the  chair,  and  drove  in  her  hateful  words 
fiercely  and  quick. 

‘  Ah,  false  heart,  you  dare  to  meet  me  at  last !  ’ 

He  said,  ‘  I  have  offended  you,  and  am  here  at  your 
mercy.’ 

‘  What  mercy  for  a  liar  ?  ’ 


CH.  VII 


GORDON’S  BANE 


ioi 


4  There  should  be  none.’ 

*  For  a  disobedient  servant?  ’ 

‘  None,  madam,  none.’ 

‘  For  a  craven  that  hides  when  war  is  adoing  ?  ’ 

He  answered  her  steadily.  ‘  Whether  is  that  man  the 
greater  coward  who  fears  such  taunts  as  these,  and  for  fear 
of  them  does  hardily  ;  or  he  that  refuses  to  draw  sword 
upon  his  sovereign,  though  she  throw  in  his  face  his  refusal  ? 
If  I  was  able  to  dare  your  enmity,  it  is  a  small  thing  to  me 
that  now  I  must  have  your  scorn.  There  is  no  man  in  this 
place  shall  call  me  craven  ;  but  from  your  Majesty  I  care  not 
to  receive  the  name,  because  I  am  proud  to  have  deserved  it.’ 

This  was  well  spoken,  had  she  not  been  too  fretful  to 
know  it. 

‘  Do  you  think,  sir,’  cried  she,  ‘  to  scold  me  ?  Do  you 
think  me  so  light  as  to  forget  ?  I  am  of  longer  memory 
than  you.  Trust  Gordon,  said  you !  Trust  Gordon  ?  I 
would  as  lief  trust  Judas  that  sold  his  master,  or  Zimri  that 
slew  his.’ 

Young  Gordon  held  his  peace,  not  knowing  how  to 
wrangle  with  a  woman.  At  the  door  there  was  some  com¬ 
motion  —  hackbutters  looking  about  for  orders,  the  captain 
of  the  guard  forbidding  the  entry,  his  hand  uplifted  to  shut 
men  out.  They  told  her  that  Lady  Huntly  was  there. 

‘  Let  her  in,’  says  the  Queen.  ‘  I  will  show  her  this  son 
of  hers.’ 

The  widow  came,  feeling  her  way  down  the  hall ;  dis¬ 
tracted  with  grief,  using  her  hands  like  a  blind  man. 
Beside  her,  really  leading  her,  was  a  tall  girl,  exceedingly 
handsome,  dark-haired,  pale,  with  proud,  shut  lips.  She 
looked  before  her,  at  nothing  in  particular — neither  at  the 
young  Queen  stormy  on  her  throne,  nor  at  the  circle  of 
watchful  men  about  her,  nor  at  her  brother’s  bowed  head, 
nor  at  the  full  doorways.  She  saw  nothing,  seemed  to 
take  no  part,  to  feel  no  shame.  Except  the  Queen  only, 
she  seemed  the  youngest  there  ;  with  the  Queen,  whose 
-eyes  she  held  from  the  beginning,  she  was  the  only  girl 
among  these  grim-regarding  men. 

‘  Who  is  that  ?  Who  is  that  girl  ?  ’  the  Queen  asked 
Lethington,  without  ceasing  to  look. 


102 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


‘  Madam,  it  is  the  Lady  Jean  Gordon.’ 

‘  She  has  a  frozen  look,  then.  Why  does  she  not  see 
me  ?  Is  she  blind  ?  ’ 

‘  They  say  she  is  proud,  madam.’ 

‘  Proud  ?  What,  to  be  a  Gordon  ?  ’ 

She  watched  her  the  whole  time  of  the  process,  finding 
her  a  cold  copy  of  her  brother,  admitting  freely  her  great 
beauty,  admiring  (while  she  grudged)  her  impassivity. 
She  herself  was  all  on  edge,  quivering  and  intense  as  a 
blown  flame,  her  face  hued  like  the  dawn,  her  eyes  frosty 
bright.  The  other  was  so  still !  But  the  Queen  was  never 
quiet.  Her  eyelids  fluttered,  the  wings  of  her  nose  ;  her 
foot  tapped  the  stool ;  she  saw  everything,  heard  every 
breath.  Jean  Gordon  had  no  colour,  and  might  have  been 
carved  in  stone  —  a  sightless,  patient  and  dumb  goddess, 
staring  forward  out  of  a  temple  porch.  Huddling  in  her 
great  chair,  resting  her  chin  on  her  hand,  her  elbow  on  her 
knee,  Queen  Mary  watched  her  closely,  sensing  an  enemy ; 
and  all  this  while  Lady  Huntly  called  upon  God  and  man 
to  testify  to  Gordon’s  bane. 

‘  Malice,’  —  thus  she  ended  her  wailing,  —  ‘  Malice  hath 
wrought  this  woe  ;  far-reaching,  insatiable  malice  !  There 
was  one  that  craved  a  fair  earldom,  and  another  the  fair 
trappings  of  a  house :  there  was  one  must  have  the  land, 
and  another  the  good  blood.  Foul  fare  they  all  —  they 
have  their  desires  in  this  world  !  Where  is  Huntly  ?  He 
is  dead.  Where  is  my  fine  son  John?  Dead!  dead! 
Where  is  Adam,  my  pretty  boy  ?  Fetters  on  his  ankles, 
madam,  the  rats  at  his  young  knees.  Come,  come,  come  : 
you  shall  have  all  the  Gordons.  There  you  have  the  heir, 
and  here  the  widow,  and  here  the  fatherless  lass.  Let 
them  plead  for  your  mercy  if  they  care.  I  have  no  voice 
left  but  a  cry,  and  no  tears  but  bloody  tears.  What  should 
I  weep  but  blood  ?  ’ 

The  Queen  still  looked  at  Jean  Gordon.  ‘Do  you 
plead,  mistress  ?  ’  she  asked  her. 

‘  I  do  not,  madam.’ 

She  turned  unwillingly  to  Gordon.  ‘  What  do  you 
plead,  sir  ?  ’ 

1  Nothing,  madam.’ 


CH.  VII 


GORDON’S  BANE 


103 


She  flew  out  at  them  all.  ‘  Insolence !  This  is  not  to 
he  borne.  You  think  to  save  your  faces  by  this  latter 
pride.  You  should  have  been  proud  before  —  proud  enough 
not  to  promise  and  to  lie.  You  expect  me  to  be  humble 
to  sue  you  to  plead  !  If  my  mercy  is  not  worth  your 
asking  it  is  not  worth  your  receiving.  My  Lord  Gordon 
surrender  yourself  to  the  law’s  discretion.  Madam,  you 
gam  nothing  by  your  reproaches  ;  and  you,  young  mistress, 
nothing  by  your  silence.  The  council  is  dissolved.’ 

.  Lord  Gordon  walked  into  ward.  The  Queen  told  Leth- 
mgton  that  all  the  forms  of  law  must  be  observed ;  by 
whlc^  L°rd  Gordon’s  execution  was  to  be  understood. 

When  she  reached  Holyrood  she  sent  for  Adam  Gordon  : 
this  shows  you  that  a  thaw  had  set  in.  She  received  him 

m  pnvate,  alone.  This  proves  that  she  wanted  something 
yet  from  the  Gordons.  8 

The  lad  stood  shamefully  by  the  door,  red  with  shame, 
and  by  shame  made  sullen.  But  the  Queen  had  melted 
betore  he  came ;  the  tears  stood  waiting  in  her  eyes.  ‘  Oh, 
Adam,  Adam  Gordon,  they  have  hurt  you!  And  vou 
have  hurt  me !  She  held  out  her  arms. 

He  looked  at  her  askance,  he  fired  up,  he  gulped  a  sob ; 
and  then  he  jumped  forward  into  the  shelter  of  her  and 
cried  his  heart  out  upon  her  bosom.  After  a  time  of 

mothering  and  such-like,  he  sat  by  her  knee  and  told  her 
everything. 

His  father  s  exorbitant  pride,  Findlater’s  ambitions, 
the  clamours  of  the  clan  and  want  of  ready  pence,  had 
undone  the  house  of  Huntly.  Findlaterwas  restless.  He 
knew  that  the  country  would  have  him  chief  ;  he  knew  that 
he  was  a  better  man  than  his  father  or  the  heir;  and  old 
Huntly  knew  it  too,  and  would  never  lag  behind.  His 
brother  G°rdon,  said  Adam,  was  an  honest  man.  For 
why  He  had  refused  to  bear  arms  against  her  Majesty, 
when  it  came  to  that  or  ruin.  That  hurt  him  so  much  with 
^  lrJdl*ed  that  he  had  gone  away.  If  he  was  a  coward, 
Adam  held,  such  cowardice  was  very  noble  courage.  ‘  And 

be  you  sure,  madam,  from  what  I  am  telling  you,  that  he 
loves  you  over- well.’ 

‘  He  should  love  his  wife,  my  child.’ 


104 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


‘His  wife,  indeed!  Not  he!’  cried  Adam.  ‘Why,  he 
loved  your  Majesty  from  the  very  first,  and  begged  you  to 
trust  him.  And  should  he  go  back  upon  his  word  ?  ’ 

‘  Well,’  said  the  Queen,  smiling,  ‘  maybe  I  will  try  him 
again.’ 

‘  So  please  your  Majesty,  think  of  this,’  Adam  said. 
‘  A  man,  they  say,  weds  with  his  hand.  But  he  loves  not 
with  the  hand.’ 

‘  Would  you  wed  with  the  hand,  boy  ?  ’ 

He  blushed.  ‘  I  would,  madam,  if  I  must.  But  I  would 
cut  it  off  first.’ 

The  Queen  was  delighted  with  him.  She  asked  about 
his  sister  —  was  very  curious.  How  old  was  his  sister  J ean  ? 
She  was  told.  Nineteen  years!  Younger  than  herself, 
then  —  and  looking  so  much  older.  Was  she  affianced? 
Not  yet  ?  What  made  the  men  such  laggards  in  the  North  ? 
She  looked  proud  and  cold :  was  she  so  indeed  ? 

‘  She  is  cold,’  says  Adam,  ‘until  you  warm  her.’ 

‘  A  still  girl,’  says  the  Queen. 

And  Adam,  ‘Ay,  deep  and  still.’ 

The  Queen  became  pensive. 

‘  I  think  I  might  be  pleased  with  her  in  time.’ 

Adam  knew  better.  ‘No,  no,  madam.  She  is  not  one 
for  your  Majesty.’ 

‘  How  so  ?  ’ 

‘  Madam,  so  please  your  Majesty,  when  you  love  it  is 
easy  seen,  and  when  you  hate  also.  All  your  heart  beats 
in  your  face.  But  Jean  hides  her  heart.  If  she  loves,  you 
will  never  see  it.  If  she  hates,  you  will  never  know  it, 
until  the  time  comes.’ 

‘  And  when  should  that  be,  Adam  ?  ’ 

‘Eh,’  says  he,  ‘when  she  has  you  fast  and  sure.’ 

This  singular  character  attracted  the  Queen.  She 
thought  much  of  Lady  Jean  Gordon,  and  for  many  days. 

Hateful  ceremonies  were  enacted  over  the  ruins  of  the 
house  of  Huntly.  The  old  Earl  in  his  coffin  was  set  up 
in  the  Parliament-house  and  indicted  of  his  life’s  offence  : 
a  brawling  indeed  in  the  quiet  garden  of  death.  They 
flung  shame  upon  the  witless  old  head ;  they  stripped  the 


CH-  vn  GORDON’S  BANE  I05 

heedless  old  body  of  the  insignia  it  wore.  The  Oueen 
made  a  wry  face  when  she  heard  of  it. 

‘Whose  is  the  vulture-mind  in  this?’  she  asked  but 
received  no  reply  from  her  stony  brother.  She  bade  them 
stop  their  nasty  play  and  deliver  up  the  corpse  to  Ladv 
Huntly  to  be  buried.  Then  she  learned  that  the  widow 
and  her  daughter  and  the  condemned  lord  had  been 
present  She  turned  pale  :  ‘  I  had  no  hand  in  this  —  I  had 
no  hand .  she  cried  out  breathlessly,  and  was  for  telling 

the  mourners.  Adam  Gordon  told  her  that  they  would  be 
very  sure  of  it. 

‘  Well/  she  said,  ‘  I  will  trust  them  to  be  as  true-minded 
as  thou. 

She  shortly  refused  to  allow  Gordon’s  execution,  and 
told  her  brother  so. 

‘You  and  your  friends,’  said  she,  ‘have  paddled  your 
hands  long  enough.  Go  you  to  your  homes  and  wash.  The 
Lord  Gordon  shall  go  to  Dunbar  to  await  my  pleasure.’ 

Tell  him,  she  said  to  Adam,  ‘that  because  he  asked 
not  his  life  I  give  it  him ;  and  say  also  that  I  trust  him 
to  make  no  escape  from  Dunbar.  Remind  him  of  his 

words  to  me  aforetime.  If  I  trust  him  again  he  must  not 
prove  me  a  fool.’ 

They  say  that,  at  this  pungent  instance  of  royal 
clemency,  Lady  Huntly  broke  down,  fell  before  her,  and 

would  have  kissed  her  feet.  The  Oueen  whipped  them 
under  her  gown. 

‘Get  up,  madam.  But  get  up!  That  is  no  place  for 
the  afflicted.  You  do  not  see  your  daughter  there.’ 

It  was  very  true.  Lady  Jean  stood,  composed  and 
serious. 

‘How  shall  I  find  the  way  into  that  fenced  heart?’ 
thinks  the  Queen. 

But  now  she  turned  her  face  eagerly  towards  England, 

whither,  Mr.  Secretary  Lethington  assured  her,  ran  an 
open,  smiling  road. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  DIVORCE  OF  MARY  LIVINGSTONE 

{To  an  Italian  Air) 

The  ranging  eye  of  the  Muse,  sweeping  up  the  little  with 
the  big,  rediscerns  Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  like  a  derelict 
ladybird,  tide-swept  into  Scotland  once  more.  It  is  true, 
unfortunately,  that  you  have  not  yet  done  with  this  poet, 
though  the  time  is  at  hand. 

He  came  warily  pricking  back  in  October ;  and,  nosing 
here  and  there,  found  a  friend  in  a  certain  portly  Italian 
gentleman,  by  name  Signior  David,  who  professed  to  be 
deeply  attached  to  him  on  very  short  notice,  and  whose 
further  employment  was,  discoverably,  that  of  foreign 
secretary  to  her  Majesty.  Needing  alliances  —  for  his 
venture  was  most  perilous — Monsieur  de  Chatelard  had 
sought  him  out ;  and  found  him  writing  in  a  garret, 
wrapped  in  ample  fur.  A  cup  of  spiced  wine  stood  by 
him,  a  sword  and  toothpick  lay  to  hand :  no  Italian  needs 
more.  He  was  a  fine,  pink,  fleshy  man,  with  a  red  beard, 
fluff  of  red  hair  in  his  ears,  light  eyelashes,  blue  eyes. 
His  hair,  darker  than  his  beard,  was  strenuous  and  tossed. 

He  was  not  very  clean,  but  his  teeth  were  admirable. 
Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  coming  in  with  great  ceremony, 
credentials  in  hand,  hoped  that  he  might  have  the  satisfac¬ 
tion  of  making  Signior  David  a  present. 

The  Italian  was  franchise  itself.  4  Per  la  Madonna,  my 
lord,  you  may  make  me  many  presents.  I  will  tire  you 
out  at  that  pastime.’  He  ran  his  eye  over  the  Marquis 

106 


ch.  viii  DIVORCE  OF  MARY  LIVINGSTONE  107 

D’Elboeuf’s  letter.  ‘  Aha,  we  have  here  Monsieur  de 
Chatelard,  poet,  and  companion  of  princes!  Sir,’  said  he, 
‘  let  two  adventurous  explorers  salute  each  other.  If  I 
were  not  a  brave  man  I  should  not  be  here;  still  less 
would  your  honour.  A  salute  seems  little  testimony 
between  two  such  champions.  You  are  Amadis,  I  am 
Splandian.  We  should  embrace,  Monsieur  de  Chatelard.’ 

They  did;  the  poet  was  much  affected.  ‘I  come  with 
my  life  in  my  hands,  Signior  David.’ 

‘Say,  rather,  on  the  tips  of  your  fingers,  dear  sir !  ’ 

‘You  see  in  me,’  continued  the  Frenchman,  ‘a  brave 
man.  You  said  as  much,  and  I  thank  you.  But  you  see 
more.  You  see  a  poet.’ 

‘  Aha!  ’  cries  the  other,  tapping  his  chest  with  one  finger; 
‘  and  here  is  the  little  fellow  who  will  sing  your  verses  as 
merrily  as  you  make  them.’ 

‘Allow  me  to  perorate,’  says  Monsieur  de  Chatelard. 
‘You  see  also,  signore,  a  disgraced  lover  of  the  Queen, 
who  nevertheless  returns  to  kiss  the  hand  that  smote  him.’ 

‘  Sanguinaccio  !  my  good  friend,’  Signior  David  replied : 
‘I  hope  I  don’t  see  a  fool.’ 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard  considered  this  aspiration  with 
that  gravity  it  deserved.  He  hesitated  before  he  made 
answer.  ‘I  hope  not,  Signior  David,’  he  said  wistfully; 

‘  but,  as  a  lover,  I  am  in  some  doubt.  For  a  lover,  as  you 
very  well  know,  is  not  (by  the  nature  of  his  case)  many 
removes  from  a  fool.  He  may  be  —  he  is  —  a  divine  fool. 
Fire  has  touched  his  lips,  to  make  him  mad.  He  speaks 
—  but  what?  Noble  folly  !  He  does  —  but  what  ?  Glorious 
rashness ! ’ 

‘Undoubtedly,’  said  the  Italian.  ‘But  does  he  not 
know  —  when  a  Queen  is  in  the  case  —  that  he  has  a  neck 
to  be  wrung  ?  ’ 

‘  He  knows  nothing  of  such  things.  This  is  the  sum  of 
his  knowledge  —  I  love  !  I  love  !  I  love  !  ’ 

The  Italian  looked  at  him  with  calmness.  ‘  I  speak 
for  my  nation,’  he  said,  ‘  when  I  assure  you  that  an  Italian 
lover  knows  more  than  that.  He  considers  means,  and 
ends  too.  Hungry  he  may  be;  but  how  shall  he  be  filled 
if  you  slit  open  his  belly  ?  He  may  be  thirsty  ;  but  if  you 


108  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  i 

cut  his  throat  ?  However,  I  am  speaking  into  the  air. 
Let  us  be  reasonable.  How  can  I  serve  you,  dear  sir?  ’ 

‘  Signior  David,’  says  the  poet,  ‘  I  shall  speak  openly 
to  you.  Howsoever  brave  a  man  may  be,  howsoever 
dedicated  to  impossible  adventure,  there  is  one  wind  which, 
blowing  through  the  forest,  must  chill  him  to  the  heart. 
It  is  the  wind  of  Indifference.  By  heaven,  sir,  can  you 
sing  before  mutes,  or  men  maimed  of  their  hands  ?  And 
how  are  you  and  I  to  do  admirable  things,  if  no  one 
admires,  or  cares  whether  we  do  them  or  not  ?  The 
thought  is  absurd.  Here,  in  this  grey  Scotland,  which  is 
Broceliande,  the  enchanted  forest  hiding  my  princess,  I 
suffer  acutely  from  my  solitude.  Formerly  I  had  friends  ; 
now  I  have  none.  Sir,  I  offer  you  my  friendship,  and  ask 
yours  again.  Be  my  friend.  Thus  you  may  serve  me,  if 
you  will.’ 

The  Italian  took  up  the  fringe  of  his  beard  and  brushed 
his  nose  with  it.  ‘  I  must  know  one  little  thing  first. 
What  do  you  want  with  your  enchanted  princess  in  the 
middle  of  your  forest  ?  Everything  ?  ’ 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard  opened  wide  his  arms,  strained 
them  forward,  clasped  them  over  his  bosom,  and  hugged 
himself  with  them. 

‘  Everything,’  he  said;  and  the  Italian  nodded,  and  sank 
into  thought. 

‘  If  I  assist  you  to  that,  good  sir,’  says  he  presently, 
looking  at  his  client,  ‘  it  will  be  a  very  friendly  act  on  my 
part.’ 

‘Sir,’  replied  the  Frenchman,  ‘  I  require  a  friendly  act.’ 

Signior  David  looked  down,  ever  so  lightly,  at  the 
jewel  in  his  hand,  which  the  poet  had  put  there.  ‘But!  ’ 
and  he  raised  his  eyebrows  over  it,  ‘  it  will  be  impossible 
for  future  rhapsodists  to  devise  an  act  more  friendly  than 
this!  It  might  be  —  I  do  not  say  that  it  will  be,  for  I 
am  a  simple  scribe,  as  you  see  —  it  might  be  a  partaking 
which  Achilles  would  never  have  allowed  to  Patroclus.’ 

‘  But  you,  signore,  are  not  Achilles,’  urged  Monsieur  de 
Chatelard. 

The  Italian  shrugged.  ‘  I  have  not  yet  found  Achilles 
in  this  country;  but  many  have  offered  themselves  to  be 


ch.  viii  DIVORCE  OF  MARY  LIVINGSTONE  109 


Patroclus.  ‘  Come,’  he  added,  with  a  pleasant  grin,  ‘  Come, 
I  will  serve  you.  We  will  be  friends.  For  the  moment  I 
recommend  discretion.  Her  Majesty  returned  but  two  days 
ago,  and  is  already  in  the  midst  of  affairs.  This  annoys 
her  extremely.  She  thought  she  had  done  with  business 
and  might  begin  her  dancing.  But  I  cannot  think  that 
she  will  dance  very  long,  the  way  matters  are  tending.’ 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard  went  away,  to  brace  himself  for 
the  opening  scene  of  a  new  act.  He  came  often  back 
again  to  see  his  friend,  to  submit  to  his  judgment  such 
and  such  a  theory.  How  should  the  lover  encounter  his 
mistress,  against  whose  person  he  had  dared,  but  not  dared 
enough,  the  storming  of  the  sweet  citadel  ?  Here  was  the 
gist  of  all  his  inquiry. 

‘  Show  yourself,  dear  sir,  show  yourself  !  ’  was  his  friend’s 
advice,  whose  own  tactics  consisted  in  never  showing 
himself  and  in  making  his  absence  felt. 

The  Frenchman,  finally,  did  show  himself,  with  very 
little  result  one  way  or  the  other.  The  Queen,  occupied  as 
she  had  been  with  Huntly’s  ruin,  and  now  with  the  patching 
up  of  a  comfortable  fragment  out  of  it,  hardly  knew  that 
he  was  there.  This  was  the  way  of  it.  A  lightly-built 
young  man  with  a  bush  of  crimped  hair  sprang  out  of  the 
press  in  hall  at  the  hour  of  the  coucher ,  and  fell  upon  his 
knees.  ‘  Ha,  Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  you  return  ?  ’  If  she 
smiled  upon  him,  it  was  because  she  smiled  on  all  the 
world  when  the  world  allowed  it. 

*  Sovereign,  the  poor  minstrel  returns  !  ’ 

‘  I  hope  he  will  sing  more  tunefully.  I  hope  he  will 
follow  the  notes.’ 

‘  All  the  notes  of  the  gamut,  Princess ;  faithfully  and  to 
the  utterance.’ 

She  nods  and  goes  her  way,  to  think  no  more  about 
him. 

From  this  unsubstantial  colloquy,  the  infatuated  gentle¬ 
man  drew  the  highest  significance.  Why,  what  are  the 
notes  of  the  chant  which  a  lover  must  follow  ?  There  is 
but  one  note ;  the  air  is  a  wailing  monotone  :  Hardiesse, 
Hardiesse ,  Hardiesse  !  O  Queen,  potent  in  Cyprus,  give 
your  vassal  effrontery ! 


no 


THE  QUEEN’S  OUAIR 


BK.  I 


Amantium  irce !  She  had  hopes  that  the  piping  times 
were  come,  with  an  air  cleaner  for  the  late  storms.  She 
had  won  back  young  Adam  Gordon,  as  you  know,  and 
sealed  him  to  her  by  kisses  and  tears.  She  had  hopes 
of  his  elder  brother,  now  a  faithful  prisoner  at  Dunbar. 
James  Earl  of  Moray  proved  a  kinder  brother  than  Lord 
James  Stuart  had  ever  been ;  Ruthven  was  gorged,  somno¬ 
lent  now,  like  a  sated  eagle,  above  the  picked  bones  of 
Huntly.  Morton  was  at  Dalkeith,  out  of  sight,  out  of 
mind ;  Mr.  Secretary  wrote  daily  to  England,  where  Sir 
James  Melvill  haggled  with  bridegrooms;  Mr.  Knox  re¬ 
ported  his  commission  faithfully  done.  He  had  laboured, 
he  said,  and  not  in  vain.  Her  Majesty  knew  that  the  two 
lords,  Bothwell  and  Arran,  had  been  reconciled.  He  took 
leave  to  say  that,  since  her  expedition  to  the  North,  he  had 
rarely  seen  a  closer  band  of  friendship  between  two  men, 
seeming  dissimilar,  than  had  been  declared  to  every  eye 
between  the  Earls  Arran  and  Bothwell. 

The  news  was  good,  as  far  as  it  went ;  it  made  for  the 
peace  which  every  sovereign  lady  must  desire.  So  much 
she  could  tell  Mr.  Knox,  with  truth  and  without  trouble. 
But  —  but  —  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  came  not  to  the  Court. 
He  had  been  seen  in  town,  in  September,  when  she  was 
fast  in  the  hills ;  he  was  now  supposed  to  be  at  Hailes ; 
had  been  at  Hamilton,  at  Dumbarton,  at  Bothwell  in 
Clydesdale.  Why  should  he  absent  himself  ?  If  by  stay¬ 
ing  away  he  hoped  to  be  the  more  present,  he  had  his 
desire.  The  Queen  grew  very  restless,  and  complained  of 
pains  in  the  back.  What  he  could  have  had  to  do  with 
these  is  not  clear ;  but  the  day  came  very  soon  when  she 
had  a  pain  in  the  side  —  his  work. 

That  was  a  day  when  there  was  clamour  in  the  quad¬ 
rangle,  sudden  rumour :  the  raving  of  a  man,  confused 
comment,  starting  of  horses,  grounding  of  arms  ;  the  guard 
turned  out.  The  Queen  was  at  prayers  —  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  for  the  priest  who  should  have  lifted  up 
her  suffrages ;  for  if  she  prayed  the  mass  through,  he  did 
not.  The  poor  wretch  thought  the  Genevans  were  after 
him,  and  his  last  office  a-saying.  Whatever  she  thought, 
Queen  Mary  never  moved,  even  though  (as  the  fact  was) 


ch.  viii  DIVORCE  OF  MARY  LIVINGSTONE  hi 

she  heard  quick  voices  at  the  chapel  doors,  and  the  shout. 
Hold  back  those  men  !  ’ 

She  found  Lethington  waiting  in  the  ante-chapel  when 
she  entered  it.  He  was  perturbed. 

Well,  Mr.  Secretary,  what  have  my  loving  subiects 
now  on  hand  ?  ’  &  J 

He  laughed  his  dismay.  ‘  Madam,  here  is  come,  with 
toam  on  his  lips,  my  Lord  of  Arran,  the  Duke’s  son.’ 

‘Doth  he  foam  so  early?’  says  she.  ‘Give  him  a 
napkin,  and  I  will  see  him  clean.’ 

Presently  they  admitted  the  disordered  man,  frowning 
and  muttering,  much  out  of  breath,  and  his  hair  all  over 
his  face.  Kirkcaldy  of  Grange  held  his  arm ;  the  Secre¬ 
tary  and  Lord  Lindsay  hovered  about  him ;  through  the 
half-open  door  there  spied  the  anxious  face  of  Des-Essars. 

‘  Speak,  my  Lord  Arran,’  says  the  Queen. 

‘God  save  us  all,  I  must,  I  must !  ’  spluttered  Arran 
and  plunged  afresh  upon  his  nightmare. 

If  that  can  be  called  speech  which  comes  in  gouts  of 
words,  like  the  gobbling  of  water  from  a  neck  too  narrow 
then  Lord  Arran  spoke.  He  wept  also  and  slapped  his 
head  he  raved,  he  adjured  high  God  — all  this  from  his 
two  knees.  Mystery  !  He  had  wicked  lips  to  unlock. 

e  must  reveal  horrid  fact,  devilish  machination,  misprision 
of  treason  !  God  knew  the  secret  of  his  heart;  God  knew 
he  would  meet  that  bloody  man  half-way.  In  that  he 
was  a  sinner,  let  him  die  the  death.  Oh,  robber,  curious 
robber !  To  dare  that  sacred  person,  to  encompass  it  with 
greedy  hands  robbery  !  God  is  not  to  be  robbed  —  and 
who  shall  dare  rob  the  King,  anointed  of  God  ?  Such  a 

man  would  steal  the  Host  from  the  altar.  Sorcery  f 
sorcery  !  sorcery  !  J  ' 

When  he  stopped  to  gasp  and  roll  his  eyeballs  in  their 
sockets,  the  Queen  had  her  opportunity.  She  was  already 
atigued,  and  hated  noises  at  any  time.  ‘  Hold  your  words, 
my  lord,  I  beg  of  you.  Who  is  your  bloody  man  ?  Who 
steals  from  a  king,  and  from  what  king  steals  he  ?  Who  is 

your  sorcerer,  and  whom  has  he  bewitched  ?  Yourself  by 
chance  ? ’ 

Arran  turned  her  the  whites  of  his  eyes  —  a  dreadful 


1 12 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


apparition.  ‘  The  Earl  of  Bothwell  ’ —  he  spoke  it  in  a 
whisper — ‘  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  did  beguile  me.’ 

‘  Then  I  think  he  did  very  idly,’  said  the  Queen.  ‘  He 
has  been  profuse  of  his  sorcery.  Tell  your  tale  to  the  Lord 
of  Lethington,  and  spare  me.’ 

And  away  she  went  in  a  pet.  Let  the  Earl  of  Bothwell 
come  to  her  or  not,  she  did  not  choose  to  get  news  of  him 
through  a  fool. 

Yet  the  fool  had  had  seed  for  his  folly.  He  was 
examined,  produced  witnesses ;  and  his  story  bore  so  black 
a  look  that  the  council  confined  him  on  their  own  discretion 
until  the  Queen’s  pleasure  could  be  known.  Then  her 
brother,  Mr.  Secretary  and  others  came  stately  into  her 
cabinet  with  their  facts.  Mr.  Knox,  said  they,  had  waited 
upon  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  to  urge  a  reconciliation  with  Lord 
Arran.  The  Hepburn  had  been  very  willing,  had  laughed 
a  good  deal  over  the  cause  of  enmity  —  a  kiss  to  a  pretty 
woman,  etc.  —  in  a  friendly  manner.  The  two  lords  had 
met,  certain  overtures  were  made  and  accepted.  Very  well; 
her  Majesty  had  observed  with  what  success  Mr.  Knox  had 
done  his  part.  But  wait  a  little !  Friendship  grew  apace, 
until  at  last  it  seemed  that  the  one  Earl  cared  not  to  lose  sight 
of  the  other.  Incongruous  partnership  !  but  there  were 
reasons.  A  few  weeks  later  my  Lord  of  Bothwell  invites 
his  friend  to  supper,  and  then  and  there  proposes  the 
ravishment  of  the  Queen’s  person  —  no  less  a  thing ! 

At  this  point  of  the  recital  her  hand,  which  had  been  very 
fidgety,  went  up  to  her  lip,  pinched  and  held  it. 

‘Continue,  my  lord,’  she  said,  ‘but  —  continue!  ’ 

‘  I  am  slow  to  name  what  I  have  been  slow  to  believe,’ 
says  my  lord  of  Moray,  conscious  of  his  new  earldom,  ‘  and 
yet  I  can  show  your  Majesty  the  witness.’ 

The  plan  had  been  to  surprise  her  on  her  way  from  Perth 
to  the  South,  take  her  to  Hamilton,  and  marry  her  there  by 
force  to  the  Earl  of  Arran.  Bothwell  was  to  have  been 
made  Chancellor  for  his  share.  He  had  asked  no  greater 
reward.  The  Queen  looked  down  to  her  lap  when  she 
heard  this.  What  more?  My  lord  of  Arran  concealed  his 
alarms  for  the  moment,  and  told  no  one ;  but  the  secrecy, 
the  weight  of  the  burden,  worked  upon  him  until  he  could 


ch.  viii  DIVORCE  OF  MARY  LIVINGSTONE  1 13 

not  bear  himself.  Before  the  plot  was  ripe  he  had  confessed 
it  to  half-a-dozen  persons.  Bothwell  threatened  him  rav¬ 
enously;  his  mind  gave  way— hence  his  frantic  penance. 
Here  was  a  budget  of  treason  for  the  Queen  to  take  in  her 
hands,  and  ponder,  wildly  and  alone.  Alone  she  pondered 
it,  in  spite  of  all  the  shocked  elders  about  her. 

If  he  had  done  it!  If  he  had  —  if  he  had!  Ah,  the 
adventure  of  it,  the  rush  of  air,  the  pounding  horse,  and  the 
safe,  fierce  arms !  Marry  her  to  Arran,  forsooth,  and 
possess  her  at  his  magnificent  leisure :  for  of  course  that 
was  the  meaning  of  it.  Arran  and  his  Hamiltons  were  dust 
in  the  eyes  of  Scotland,  but  necessary  dust.  He  could  not 
have  moved  without  them.  Thus,  then,  it  was  planned  — 
and  oh !  if  he  had  done  it !  So  well  had  she  learned  to 
school  her  face  that  not  a  man  of  them,  watching  for  it, 
expecting  it,  could  be  sure  for  what  it  was  that  her  heart 
beat  the  tattoo,  and  that  the  royal  colours  ran  up  the  staff 
on  the  citadel,  and  flew  there,  straining  to  the  gale.  Was 
it  maiden  alarm,  was  it  queenly  rage,  that  made  her  cheeks 
so  flamy-hot  ?  It  was  neither :  she  knew  perfectly  well 
what  it  was.  And  what  was  she  going  to  do  in  requital  of 
this  scandalous  scheme  ?  None  of  them  knew  that  either; 
but  she  again  knew  perfectly  well  what  she  was  about.  She 
was  about  to  give  herself  the  most  exquisite  pleasure  in  life 
—  to  deal  freely,  openly, and  as  of  right,  with  her  secret  joy; 
to  handle  in  the  face  of  all  men  the  forbidden  thing,  and  to 
read  into  every  stroke  she  dealt  her  darling  desire.  None 
would  understand  her  pleasure,  none  could  forbid  it  her; 
for  none  could  under-read  her  masked  words.  And  her 
face,  as  glacial-keen  as  Athena’s,  like  Antigone’s  rapt  for 
sacrifice ;  her  thoughtful,  reluctant  eyes,  her  patient  smile, 
clasped  hands,  considered  words  —  a  mask,  a  mask  !  Hear 
the  sentences  as  they  fell,  like  slow,  soft  rain,  and  listen 
beneath  for  the  exulting  burthen  :  ‘  If  he  had !  Oh,  if 

he  had  !  ’ 

‘  My  lords,  this  is  a  fond  and  foolish  adventure,  pro¬ 
ceeding  from  a  glorious  heart  to  a  distempered  head.  My 
dignity  may  suffer  by  too  serious  care  for  it.  But  as  I  may 
not  permit  any  subject  of  mine  to  handle  my  person,  to  deal 
familiarly  with  my  person,  even  in  thought,  I  must  take 

H 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


114 


as  much  notice  of  it  as  the  fact  deserves.  Let  the  Lords 
Arran  and  Bothwell  be  committed  to  ward  during  pleasure. 
Prepare  such  writs  as  are  needful.  They  shall  see  my  sign- 
manual  upon  them.’ 

She  rose,  they  with  her,  and  went  across  to  the  curtain 
of  the  private  rooms;  she  held  the  curtain  as  she  stayed 
to  look  back. 

‘  Be  secret,  Mr.  Secretary,  and  swift.’ 

‘  I  shall  obey  your  Majesty  in  all  things.’ 

Sitting  alone  and  very  still,  she  wrought  her  hardest  to 
be  offended  at  this  tale,  as  became  a  sovereign  lady.  She 
bit  her  red  lip  over  it,  frowned,  covered  her  eyes  —  acting 
a  horror  which  she  could  not  feel.  Resolutely  then  she 
uncovered  them  again,  to  look  it  in  the  face  and  see  it  at 
its  worst.  But  what  she  saw,  and  exulted  to  see,  was  a 
Man.  And  the  face  of  the  man  was  broad-jowled,  flushed, 
and  had  a  jutting  under-jaw;  its  mouth  snarled  as  it 
laughed,  its  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  hardily  wicked,  it 
was  bearded  from  the  throat.  Wicked,  daring,  laughing 
Bothwell  —  hey,  yes,  but  a  Man  ! 

His  plot  —  how  could  she  but  admire  it  as  a  plot?  It 
was  a  chain  of  fine  links.  Arran  was  heir-presumptive, 
and  would  hold  the  South ;  Arran’s  sister  married  to 
Huntly’s  son  —  there’s  for  the  North.  In  the  midst,  Both¬ 
well  with  the  wittold’s  wife  —  herself.  Now,  if  that  were 
the  plan,  then  Bothwell  was  her  lover.  Observe  the  plain 
word :  her  lover,  not  her  adoring  slave.  Also,  if  that 
were  the  plan,  and  Arran  a  catspaw,  then  Bothwell  would 
be  her  master.  Another  plain  word  for  a  plain  proposal, 
with  which  no  woman,  be  she  chaste  or  frail,  is  altogether 
offended. 

Certainly  this  young  woman  was  not  offended,  as  she 
dallied  with  each  thought  in  turn  —  weighing,  affecting  to 
choose.  Lover !  Master !  This  saucy,  merry  robber. 
How  should  she  be  offended  ?  It  was  only  a  thought. 
Lancelot  had  loved  his  queen,  and  Tristram  his.  Let  the 
plot  be  put  before  these  two  to  judge,  Lancelot  would 
have  laughed  and  Tristram  grieved.  Arran  had  been  like 
Tristram,  and  she  curled  her  lip  to  think  of  him,  and 
laughed  aloud  as  she  chose  for  Lancelot.  Ah,  how  can 


ch.  viii  DIVORCE  OF  MARY  LIVINGSTONE  115 

you  be  offended  with  Love  and  his  masterful  ways  ?  Or 
with  the  blithe  lover,  who  laughs  while  he  spoils  you  ?  It 
is  son  naturel;  and  must  we  not  follow  our  nature  ?  Love, 
which  made  George  Gordon  glum,  made  Bothwell  merry. 
He  would  go,  humming  the  same  southern  air,  to  battle  or 
to  bride-bed,  to  midnight  robbery  or  the  strife  of  love. 
He  was  a  man,  do  you  see  ?  They  had  such  in  France, 
a  plenty;  but  in  Scotland  what  had  they  but  pedlars, 
hagglers,  cattle-drovers,  field-preachers?  What  other  in 
Scotland  would  have  shaped  such  a  plan  as  this,  and 
gaily  opened  it  to  a  fool  ?  The  Earl  of  Morton,  do  you 
suppose  —  that  thick  schemer?  Her  brother  Moray,  the 
new  Earl,  sour,  careful  merchant  of  his  store  ?  Dead  old 
Huntly,  John  of  Findlater,  wordy,  bickering  hillmen  ?  Or 
George^Gordon,  chastened  and  contrite  at  Dunbar  ?  Not 
one  of  them,  not  one.  Gordon  was  her  lover  —  accorded. 
But  Gordon  made  eyes,  —  and  this  other,  plans  to  carry 
her  off.  Oh,  here  is  the  difference  between  a  boy’s  kisses 
and  a  man’s.  The  one  sort  implies  itself,  the  other  all  the 
furious  empery  of  love. 

The  slim,  pale,  wise  young  witch  that  she  looked  — 
sitting  here  alone,  spelling  out  her  schemes,  glancing  side¬ 
long  from  her  hazel  eyes  !  Tenez,  she  was  playing  with 
thoughts,  like  a  girl  hot  upon  a  girl’s  affair.  Not  thus 
meditates  a  prince  upon  his  policy  !  She  began  to  walk 
about,  looked  out  of  window,  fingered  the  arras ;  and  all 
the  while  was  urging  herself  to  princely  courses.  As  a 
prince,  she  would  certainly  make  a  high  alliance  ;  as  a 
prince,  she  must  show  disorderly  subjects  that  she  was  not 
to  be  touched  too  familiarly.  The  man  must  be  reminded  ; 
prison  walls  would  cool  his  fevers.  Let  him  think  of  her 
in  confinement.  When  he  came  out  she  would  be  affianced, 
perhaps  wedded  — safe  in  either  case.  Then  it  would  be 
lawful  to  see  him  again,  and  —  and  —  oh,  what  a  laughing 
Lancelot  went  there ! 

She  kept  her  own  counsel,  having  made  up  her  own 
mind,  and  contrived  to  seem  severe  without  being  so. 
The  Earl  of  Arran  was  sent  to  Dumbarton,  a  nominal 
confinement;  but  Bothwell  was  warded  in  Edinburgh 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


1 1 6 


Castle,  the  length  of  a  street  away.  ‘  He  is  more  danger¬ 
ous,  it  seems,  the  farther  off  he  is  lodged,’  she  gave  as  her 
reason.  It  was  easy  to  learn  that  he  made  good  cheer, 
kept  a  generous  table,  saw  his  friends  and  had  all  the 
Court  news ;  not  quite  so  easy  to  pretend  not  to  learn  it. 
Yet,  I  suppose,  she  knew  by  the  next  day  everything  that 
he  had  said  or  done  overnight.  Des-Essars  was  go- 
between,  not  officially,  of  course,  but  as  by  accident. 
Few  beside  Mary  Livingstone  remarked  that  this  discreet 
and  demure  youth  was  off  duty  for  half  the  day  at  a  time. 
Then  Bishop  Hepburn,  my  lord’s  reprobate,  chuckling 
uncle,  came  to  Edinburgh,  and  sauntered  up  and  down 
the  hill  as  he  chose;  an  old  hand  at  a  game  as  old  as 
Troy  town.  Playing  a  round  at  cards  with  the  Queen,  he 
treated  the  late  escapade  as  a  family  failing.  But  this  was 
a  false  step  of  his :  the  Queen  was  not  to  be  caught. 

‘  When  you  say  that  the  thing  was  folly,  you  are  more 
cruel  than  I  have  been.  I  have  punished  your  nephew  for 
presumption  and  crime,  but  have  never  accused  him  of 
being  a  fool.  However,  since  you  are  in  a  position  to 
judge,  I  am  willing  to  take  it  from  you.’ 

He  stood  corrected,  but  did  not  cease  to  observe.  The 
Queen’s  circumspection  filled  him  with  wonder,  and  at  the 
same  time  taught  him,  by  its  accuracy,  all  he  wanted  to 
know.  His  lesson  pat,  he  went  up  to  the  Castle  again. 

‘  Nephew,’  he  said,  4  the  cage-door  is  not  set  open,  but 
I  believe  you  have  only  to  turn  the  handle  when  you 
please.’ 

‘  I  shall  not  turn  it  just  yet  awhile,  my  good  lord  bishop,’ 
said  the  Earl,  playing  a  tune  upon  his  knee ;  ‘  I  find  this  a 
fine  post  of  observation.’ 

It  was  Mary  Livingstone  who  first  found  out  the  truth 
of  matters,  and  by  plunging  into  the  fire  to  save  her 
mistress  succeeded  in  nothing  but  burning  herself.  When, 
after  a  sharp  examination,  she  learned  where  Des-Essars 
had  spent  his  free  days,  she  could  not  contain  herself. 
‘  Fine  use  for  pages  !  Fine  use  !  ’ 

This  provoked  a  quarrel.  The  Queen  stamped  her  foot, 
flung  up  and  down,  shed  tears.  ‘You  are  too  masterful, 
my  girl,  too  much  the  husband.  You  mistake  a  game  and 


ch.  viii  DIVORCE  OF  MARY  LIVINGSTONE  117 

play  for  a  bout-at-issue.  I  do  not  choose  to  be  mistressed 
by  a  maid  of  honour.  There  must  be  an  end  of  this.’ 

Livingstone  listened  gravely.  ‘  Do  with  me  as  you 
will,  madam.  Put  me  in  my  place.  What  is  your 
pleasure  ?  ’ 

‘To  rule  my  people,  child.’ 

‘  Rule,  madam,  rule.  Command  me  in  anything.  For¬ 
bid  me  everything,  but  one  thing.’ 

‘  I  shall  forbid  you  what  is  unwholesome  for  you,  and  for 
me  also.’ 

‘You  shall  not  forbid  me  to  love  you,’  said  the  maid, 
very  white. 

‘  Nay,  that  I  cannot  do !  ’  cried  the  Queen,  laughing  and 
weeping  at  once.  So  they  kissed. 

But,  for  all  that,  she  removed  Livingstone  from  her  side, 
and  chose  Fleming.  Mr.  Secretary,  acceptable  widower  in 
that  lady’s  sight,  rubbed  his  hands  over  the  choice ;  and 
Fleming  herself  was  so  sweetly  gratified  that  nobody  could 
grudge  her  her  promotion.  She  was  a  gentle-natured,  low¬ 
voiced,  modest  girl,  with  the  meek  beauty  of  an  angel  in  a 
Milanese  picture.  Older  than  the  Queen,  she  looked 
younger  ;  whereas  Livingstone  was  younger  and  looked 
older.  No  doubt  this  one  felt  her  fall ;  but,  being  as  good 
as  gold  and  as  proud  as  iron,  she  held  her  head  the  higher 
for  her  lower  degree,  and  smiled  benevolently  at  the 
raptures  of  the  new  favourite. 

‘My  dear,’  she  said  to  Fleming,  ‘do  not  think  that  I 
grudge  thee.  In  truth,  I  do  not.  What  I  said  was  done 
advisedly.  I  knew  what  must  come  of  it ;  I  sought  it,  and 
shall  put  up  with  it.  I  have  a  deal  to  think  on,  these  days, 
and  my  thoughts  will  be  my  night-company.’ 

‘  She  will  never  love  me  as  she  loves  thee,’  says  Fleming ; 
and  was  answered  : 

‘  I  care  not  greatly  if  she  do  or  no ;  nor  will  I  measure 
loves  with  any  one.  Our  affair  the  now  is  to  get  her  fast 
wedded.’ 

‘  So  saith  Mr.  Secretary  at  all  hours,’  said  Fleming. 

But  Livingstone  tossed  her  head.  ‘  Fine  he  knows  the 
heart  of  a  lass,  your  Lethington  body  !  ’ 

Fleming  looked  serious.  ‘  He  hath  spoken  to  me  of  my 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


I  1  8 


Lord  of  Lennox,’  she  said,  in  a  lower  tone.  ‘This  lord  is 
near  akin  to  our  mistress  ;  nearer,  if  the  truth  were  known, 
than  the  Duke.  He  hath  a  likely  son  in  England,  a  noble 
young  man  —  my  Lord  of  Darnley.  The  Queen  of 
England  holds  him  dear,  and  (they  say)  looketh  to  him  to 
be  her  heir.’ 

Livingstone  made  an  outcry.  ‘  Then  she  looketh  askew  ! 
It  is  well  known  to  her  and  hers  who  the  heir  of  England 
is.  Who  should  it  be  but  our  own  lady  ?  ’ 

But  Fleming  persisted  in  her  quiet  way.  ‘  Mr.  Secretary 
speaks  of  him  as  a  hopeful  prince  —  having  seen  and  had 
speech  with  him.  I  do  but  use  his  own  words.  Sir  James 
Melvill  writes  of  him.  Mr.  Randolph  owns  him  to  be 
something,  though  unwillingly.  And,  says  Mr.  Secretary, 
we  may  depend  upon  it  that  when  Mr.  Randolph  admits 
some  grace  in  a  Scots  lord,  there  is  much  grace.’ 

Livingstone’s  open  eyes  showed  that  the  thing  had  to  be 
considered.  ‘  There  may  be  some  promise  in  all  of  this,’ 
says  she.  What  you  tell  me  of  Mr.  Randolph  gives  me 
thoughts.  Had  he  nothing  more  to  own  ?  Has  Mary 
Beaton  got  nothing  from  him  ?  ’  English  Mr.  Randolph, 
you  must  know,  was  apt  to  open  his  heart  to  Mary  Beaton 
when  that  brown  siren  called  for  it. 

‘He  told  Mary  Beaton,’  Fleming  replied,  ‘that  the 
Queen  of  England  valued  one  lord  no  more  than  other, 
until  —  until —  I  know  not  how  to  put  it.  In  fine,  he  said, 
that  if  any  lord  of  her  court  was  sought  after  by  another, 
then  his  Queen  would  need  that  lord  more  than  any  other. 
Do  you  follow  ?  ’ 

‘  Ay,’  says  Livingstone,  ‘  I  follow  thee  now.  My  lord  of 
Darnley,  he  is  called  ?  Why,  let  him  come  up  then  :  we 
can  but  look  at  him.’ 

‘  Oh,  my  dear  chuck,’  Fleming  protested,  ‘  princes  are 
not  wed  by  the  eyes’  favour.’ 

‘They  have  the  right  to  be,’  said  her  mate;  ‘and  it  is 
only  thus,  let  me  tell  you,  that  our  Queen  will  be  well 
wedded.’  She  grew  exceedingly  serious.  ‘  Look  you, 
Fleming,  she  is  in  danger,  she  is  dangerous.  I  know  very 
well  what  is  passing  up  and  down  between  this  and  the 
Castle  rock.  Ask  me  not — seek  not  to  learn.  It  is  not 


ch.  viii  DIVORCE  OF  MARY  LIVINGSTONE  119 

enough  for  her  that  she  contract  with  this  man  or  that. 
I  tell  you,  she  must  want  him' 

Fleming  blushed  painfully,  but  there  was  no  gainsaying 
the  truth.  ‘  It  is  true,  she  hath  a  great  spirit.’ 

‘  Ay,’  muttered  Livingstone  grimly,  ‘  and  needeth  a 
greater.’ 

‘  They  say,’  Fleming  continued,  ‘that  the  Lord  Darnley’s 
is  a  royal  soul.’ 

And  Livingstone  ended  the  council.  ‘  Let  the  young 
man  come  up.  We  can  but  look  at  him.’ 

Mary  Livingstone,  the  divorced,  had  a  secret  of  her  own, 
but  made  very  light  of  it.  The  Master  of  Sempill  demanded 
her  person  ;  said  he  could  not  be  denied.  Her  father  was 
willing,  and  his  father  more  than  willing ;  yet  she  laughed 
it  all  away.  ‘  I  am  husband  of  the  Queen  of  Scots,’  she 
said,  ‘or  was  so  yesterday.  What  should  I  do  with  the 
Master  ?  ’ 

The  old  lord,  her  father,  tapped  his  teeth.  ‘  You  speak 
pleasantly,  daughter,  of  a  pleasant  privilege  of  yours. 
But  the  Master  is  a  proper  man,  who  must  have  a  better 
answer.’ 

‘  Let  him  bide  till  I  am  ready,’  says  the  good  Living¬ 
stone. 

‘  I  doubt  he  will  do  it,  my  lass.  He  may  spoil.’ 

‘  Then  he  is  not  worth  the  having,  my  lord,’  replied  the 
maid.  ‘  What  use  have  I  for  perishable  goods  ?  ’ 

The  Master  chose  to  wait ;  and  when  the  Court  moved 
to  Saint  Andrews  he  waited  in  Fife. 

The  Court  went  thither  with  various  great  affairs  in 
train,  whose  conduct  throve  in  that  shrill  air.  The  Queen 
would  work  all  the  forenoon  with  Lethington  and  her  useful 
Italian,  play  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  to  bed  early.  She 
played  at  housewifery:  bib  and  tucker,  gown  pinned  back, 
all  her  hair  close  in  a  clean  coif.  The  life  was  simple,  the 
air  of  homely  keenness,  the  weather  wintry  ;  but  the  great 
fire  was  kind.  All  about  her  made  for  healthy  tastes ; 
inspired  the  hale  beauty  of  a  life  within  the  allotted  fence, 
a  taskwork  smoothly  done,  and  God  well  pleased  in  His 
heaven.  Lethington,  a  pliant  man,  lent  himself  to  the 


120 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


Queen’s  humour  ;  Signior  David  was  never  known  to  be 
moody ;  there  were  Adam  Gordon  and  Des-Essars  to  give 
their  tinge  of  harmless  romance  —  a  thin  wash,  as  it  were, 
of  water-colour  over  the  grey  walls.  Sir  James  Melvill, 
too,  who  had  been  to  England  upon  the  high  marriage 
question,  and  returned,  and  was  now  to  go  again,  arrived, 
full  of  importance,  for  last  words.  It  had  come  to  this, 
that  the  Queen  was  now  to  choose  a  husband. 

Sir  James  was  struck  by  her  modest  air,  that  of  a 
tutored  maid  who  knows  that  she  is  called  to  matronhood. 
1  Ecce  ancilla  Domini /’  In  truth  she  was  listening  to 
those  very  words. 

‘  I  shall  strive  in  all  things,  Sir  James  Melvill,  to  please 
my  good  sister.  Whether  it  be  my  Lord  Robert 1  or  my 
cousin  Darnley,  I  trust  I  shall  satisfy  my  well-wishers.’ 

Soft  voice,  lowly  eyes,  timid  fingers !  ‘  Who  has  been 

pouring  oil  upon  this  beading  wine  ?  ’  asked  himself  Sir 
James.  Who  indeed,  but  Saint  Andrew,  with  his  frosty 
sea-salt  breath  ? 

It  was  just  at  this  time,  as  things  fell  out,  that  the  Earl 
of  Lennox, father  to  that  ‘hopeful  prince’  of  Mary  Fleming’s 
report,  came  to  Scotland,  as  he  said,  upon  a  lawsuit  con¬ 
cerning  his  western  lands.  But  some  suspected  another 
kind  of  suit  altogether  ;  among  whom,  for  the  best  of 
reasons,  were  the  Queen’s  brother  James,  and  the  Lord  of 
Lethington  the  Secretary.  Another  was  Signior  David, 
daemonic  familiar  of  Monsieur  de  Chatelard. 


1  Lord  Robert  Dudley,  later  the  too-famous  Lord  of  Leicester. 


CHAPTER  IX 

AIR  OF  ST.  ANDREW:  ADONIS  AND  THE  SCAPEGOAT 

At  Saint  Andrews  the  Queen  lodged  in  a  plain  house, 
where  simplicity  was  the  rule,  and  she  kept  no  state.  The 
ladies  wore  short  kirtles  and  hoods  for  their  heads ;  gossiped 
with  fishwives  on  the  shore,  shot  at  butts,  rode  out  with 
hawks  over  the  dunes,  coursed  hares,  walked  the  sands  of 
the  bay  when  the  sea  was  down.  The  long  evenings  were 
spent  in  needlework  and  books ;  or  one  sang,  or  told  a  tale 
of  France  —  of  Garin  de  Montglane  or  the  Enfances  Vivien. 
Looking  back  each  upon  his  life  in  after  years,  Adam 
Gordon  was  sure  that  he  had  loved  her  best  in  her  bodice 
of  snow  and  grey  petticoat ;  Des-Essars  when,  with  hair 
blown  back  and  eyes  alight,  she  had  led  the  chase  over  the 
marsh  and  looked  behind  her,  laughing,  to  call  him  nearer. 
She  was  never  mistress  of  herself  on  horseback,  but  stung 
always  by  some  divine  tenant  to  be  —  or  to  seem  —  the  most 
beautiful,  most  baleful,  most  merciless  of  women.  And 
although  her  hues  varied  in  the  house,  so  did  not  her 
powers.  She  was  tender  there  to  a  fault,  sensitive  to 
change  as  a  filmy  wing,  with  quick  little  touches,  little 
sighs,  lowering  of  eyelids,  smiles  half-seen,  provoking  cool 
lips,  long  searching  looks.  She  meant  no  harm  —  but 
consider  Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  drawn  in  as  a  pigeon  to 
the  lure  !  —  she  must  always  bewitch  something,  girl  or  boy, 
poet  or  little  dog ;  and  indeed,  there  was  not  one  of  these 
youths  now  about  her  who  was  not  crazy  with  love.  She 
chose  at  this  time  to  be  more  with  them  than  with  the 
maids  ;  a  boy  at  heart  herself,  she  was  just  now  as  blowsed 

121 


122 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


as  a  boy.  She  used  to  sit  whispering  with  them ;  told 
them  much,  and  promised  more  than  she  told. 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard —  having  ventured  to  present 
himself  —  expanded  in  the  sun  of  that  Peace  of  Saint 
Andrew  until  he  resembled  some  gay  prismatic  bubble, 
which  may  be  puffed  up  to  the  ceiling  and  bob  there  until 
it  bursts.  The  Queen  had  forgiven  him  his  trespass  and 
forgotten  it.  She  resumed  him  on  the  old  footing,  sang 
with  him,  let  him  whisper  in  her  ear,  dared  greatly,  and 
supposed  all  danger  averted  by  laughter.  Having  high 
spirits  and  high  health,  she  was  in  the  mood  to  romp.  So 
they  played  country  games  by  the  light  of  the  fire :  blind 
man’s  buff,  hot  codlings,  Queen  o’  the  Bean.  You  come 
to  close  quarters  at  such  times.  You  venture:  it’s  in  the 
bargain.  If  a  Queen  runs  to  hide  she  shall  not  blame  a 
poet  who  runs  to  seek —  or  she  should  not.  When,  in  the 
early  spring,  Mr.  Secretary  was  gone  to  Edinburgh  to  see 
the  Earl  of  Lennox  about  that  suit  of  his  —  lawsuit  or  other 
- —  the  Queen  went  further  in  her  frolics.  In  the  garden 
one  day  she  found  a  dry  peascod  intact,  nine  peas  in  it. 
There  is  a  country  augury  in  this.  Nothing  would  content 
her  but  she  must  put  it  on  the  lintel  like  a  dairymaid,  and 
sit  conscious  in  the  dusk  until  her  fate  crossed  the  threshold. 
Anon  there  stepped  in  Monsieur  de  Chatelard  with  a  song. 
When  the  joke  was  made  clear  to  him  he  took  it  gravely. 
An  omen,  an  omen  ! 

The  sense  of  freedom  which  you  have  when  you  have 
made  your  election  took  her  fancies  a-romping  as  well  as 
her  humours.  They  strayed  with  Lord  Bothwell  on  the 
Castle  rock,  they  visited  Lord  Gordon  at  Dunbar.  Allez , 
all’s  safe  now !  Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we 
die ;  let  us  take  pity  on  our  lovers,  since  to-morrow  we  are 
to  wed.  And  —  so  we  juggle  with  ourselves! — she  wrote 
an  unnecessary  letter  to  the  one  in  order  that  she  might 
write  an  imprudent  letter  to  the  other. 

‘Monsieur  de  Gordon,’  ran  the  first  —  and  Adam  carried 
it  to  Dunbar  in  his  bosom  —  ‘  I  am  content  to  believe  that 
your  constancy  in  affliction  proceedeth  from  a  heart  well- 
affected  towards  me  at  this  last.  You  will  find  me  always 
mindful  of  my  friends,  among  whom  I  look  to  reckon 


CH.  IX 


AIR  OF  ST.  ANDREW 


123 


yourself  in  time  to  come.  Attachment  to  the  prince 
floweth  only  from  good  faith  towards  God.  Holding  to 
the  one,  needs  must  it  follow  that  you  find  the  other. 
Your  brother  Adam  will  tell  you  the  same.  —  Your  good 
mistress,  Marie  R.’ 

Then  she  wrote  this  —  for  Des-Essars  to  deliver  or 
perish ;  and  you  may  catch  the  throb  of  the  pulse  in  the 
lines  of  the  pen  :  — 

‘  Monsieur  de  Bothwell,  they  tell  me  you  deal  more  tem¬ 
perately  in  these  days,  having  more  space  for  a  little 
thought  the  less  your  person  is  enlarged.  They  report 
you  to  me  as  well  in  body,  the  which  I  must  not  grieve 
for ;  but  repining  in  mind.  Can  I  be  sorry,  or  wonder  at 
it,  seeing  to  what  gusty  airs  your  phrenzy  drove  you  ? 
This  glove,  which  I  send,  is  for  one  plain  purpose.  You 
see,  my  lord,  that  the  fingers  are  stiff  where  water  hath 
wetted  them  of  late.  You  offended  your  Queen,  who  had 
always  wished  you  very  well :  the  tears  were  for  sorrow 
that  a  heart  so  bold  should  prompt  a  deed  so  outrageous.’ 

Lord  Bothwell,  when  he  had  this  letter,  sat  looking  at 
it  and  its  guest  for  a  long  while,  in  a  stare.  His  mouth 
smiled,  but  his  eyes  did  not ;  and  he  sang  softly  to  himself, 
La-la-la ,  and  a  la-la-laido  !  A  night  or  two  later,  by  means 
of  the  seal  upon  it  and  his  uncle’s  influence,  he  walked  out 
of  the  Castle,  and  was  presently  in  the  Hermitage  with 
Des-Essars.  Hence  he  wrote  to  the  Queen  :  ‘O  Lady,  O 
Sovereign!  I  shall  carry  a  token  upon  my  helm,  and 
break  lances  under  its  whisper  until  I  die,’  —  but  neither 
signed  nor  dated  the  letter. 

‘  Say  to  your  mistress,  boy,  that  I  gave  you  this  ;  but 
breathe  not  a  word  of  whence  I  wrote  it.  Disobey  me, 
you  who  know  me  of  old,  and  when  I  come  again  I  will 
make  of  your  skin  but  a  leaky  bottle  of  blood.’ 

Des-Essars  gave  his  pledge,  and  kept  it  for  some  time. 

If  the  Queen  said  nothing  about  all  this  to  her  maids,  it 
is  no  wonder.  She  had  done  foolishly,  and  knew  it  in  part, 
and  took  secret  glory  in  it.  At  certain  still  hours  of  the 
day,  when  she  could  afford  herself  the  luxury  of  lonely 
thought,  she  would  go  over  what  she  had  done,  phrase 
after  phrase  of  her  letter ;  recover  the  trembling  with  which 


124 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


she  had  put  in  the  glove  ;  picture  its  receipt,  read  and  re¬ 
read  his  words.  And  then,  as  she  thought,  the  heat  of  her 
cheeks  burnt  up  all  thought ;  and,  as  she  stayed  to  feel  her 
heart  beat,  it  drummed  in  her  ears  like  nuptial  music. 
But  they  frightened  her,  these  signs  and  wonders ;  she  ran 
away  from  herself  —  into  the  maids’  closet,  into  the  hall 
among  the  lounging  men,  into  the  windy  weather  —  and 
cooled  her  cheeks  with  the  salt  sea-spray,  and  drowned  the 
clamour  of  her  heart  in  the  rude  welcome  of  March. 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  with  the  lover’s  keen  eye,  saw 
that  she  was  fluttered,  watched  her  everywhere.  About 
this  time  also  he  consulted  his  friend. 

‘  Monsieur  de  Riccio,’  he  said,  ‘  there  are  signs  of  the 
rising  of  sap.  The  birds  pair,  the  festival  of  Saint  Valen¬ 
tine  the  Bishop  is  come  and  gone.  Why  do  I  linger  ?  ’ 

‘  Peste  !  ’  said  the  Italian,  who  had  other  things  to  think 
of  :  ‘  how  should  I  know  ?  ’ 

‘By  sympathy,’  his  friend  reproached  him:  ‘by  the 
stricken  heart.  For  you  also  have  loved.’ 

‘  Dear  sir,’  replied  the  other,  stretching  his  long  legs  to 
the  full,  ‘  I  have  love  and  to  spare  at  this  time.  Or  put  it, 
I  am  beloved.  Monsieur  de  Moray,  her  Majesty’s  brother, 
loves  me  dearly,  or  so  he  says  ;  Monsieur  de  Lennox  is  his 
rival  for  my  favours.  Ha,  they  kiss  my  hands !  I  am 
touched;  I  have  to  decide — like  a  girl.  To  you,  then,  I 
must  briefly  say,  The  times  are  ripe.  Go  you  and  anoint 
for  the  bridal.  I  tell  you  that  this  very  night  —  if  you  so 
choose  it — you  may  be  the  happiest  of  men.’ 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard  lifted  high  his  head.  ‘  Be  sure 
of  my  friendship  for  ever,  Signior  David.’ 

He  threw  his  cloak  over  one  shoulder  and  went  out. 

‘  Pig  and  pig’s  son !  ’  said  Signior  David,  returning  to  his 
love-letters. 

He  had  two  letters  under  his  hand.  One  told  him  that 
he  might  consider  himself  fortunate  to  have  been  chosen 
an  instrument  to  further  the  designs  of  Providence  in  this 
kingdom.  The  Lord  of  Lethington  (it  said)  was  possessed 
of  the  writer’s  full  mind  upon  a  momentous  step  taken  of 
late  towards  the  highest  seat,  under  God,  of  any  in  the 
land.  ‘I  cannot  answer,’  it  continued,  ‘for  what  Mr. 


CH.  IX 


AIR  OF  ST.  ANDREW 


125 


Secretary  may  discover  to  you  upon  your  approaching  him 
with  the  words  “  Kirk  and  Realm  ”  upon  your  lips,  saving 
that,  whatever  it  be,  it  will  be  coloured  with  my  friendship, 
which  hopes  for  yours  again.’  There  was  no  name  at  the 
foot. 

‘  Aut  Moray  aut  diabolus  /’  however,  said  the  Italian  to 
himself ;  ‘  and  why  the  devil  my  Lord  of  Moray  desires  his 
sister  to  wed  the  heir  of  Lennox,  I  have  no  particle  of 
understanding.  Maybe  that  he  hopes  to  ruin  her  with  the 
English;  maybe  with  the  Scots.  Certainly  he  hopes  to 
ruin  her  somewhere.’ 

The  other  letter  was  signed  freely  by  its  author  — 
*  Matho  Levenaxe  ’  —  and  besought  Signior  David’s  further¬ 
ance  of  his  son’s,  the  Lord  Darnley’s,  interests;  who  had 
come  post  into  Scotland  upon  affairs  connected  with  his 
lands,  and  was  prompted  by  duty  and  conscience  ‘  to  lay 
homage  at  the  feet  of  her  who  is,  and  ever  must  be,  the 
Cynosure  of  his  obedient  eyes.’  There  was  much  about 
merit,  the  Phoenix,  the  surcharged  heart  of  a  father,  ties 
of  blood  —  common  properties  of  such  letters;  and  the 
unequivocal  suggestion  that  favour  would  meet  favour 
half-way. 

These  documents  were  vastly  agreeable  to  the  Italian. 
They  invited  him  to  be  benevolent  and  lose  nothing  by  it. 

One  of  these  honourable  persons  desired  to  ruin  the 
bride,  the  other  to  prosper  the  bridegroom.  Well  and  good. 
And  he,  Signior  David  ?  What  was  his  desire  ?  To  prosper 
alike  with  bride,  bridegroom,  and  the  exalted  pair,  his 
correspondents.  Va  bene ,  va  be7ie.  His  business  was  there¬ 
fore  simple.  He  must  engage  the  bride  to  contract  herself 
—  but  with  enthusiasm;  for  without  that  she  would  never 
budge.  And  how  should  that  be  done?  Plainly,  by  the 
way  of  disgust.  She  must  be  disgusted  with  amours  before 
she  could  be  enamoured  of  marriage.  And  how  ?  And 
how  ?  Ha  !  there  was  Monsieur  de  Chatelard. 

In  some  such  chop-logic  fashion  his  mind  went  to  work : 
I  do  not  pretend  to  report  his  words. 

He  lost  no  time  in  accosting  Mr.  Secretary,  on  an  early 
day  after  his  return  to  Saint  Andrews,  with  his  master- 
word  of  ‘Kirk  and  Realm.’  The  Secretary  had  not  much 


126 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


taste  for  Signior  David.  ‘  I  see  that  you  have  a  key  to  my 
lips,’  he  said.  ‘You  may  rifle  by  leave,  if  you  will  let  the 
householder  know  just  what  you  are  taking  out  of  his 
cupboard.’ 

‘  Eh,  dear  sir,’  cried  the  other,  ‘  how  you  reprove  me 
beforehand !  Your  cupboard  is  safe  for  me.  I  wish  to 
know  how  I  can  serve  Milord  of  Moray ;  no  more.’ 

The  Secretary  narrowed  his  eyes  and  whistled  a  little 
tune.  ‘You  can  serve  him  very  simply.  You  write  our 
mistress’s  letters  ?  Now,  the  pen  is  in  touch  with  the 
heart.  There  flows  a  tide  through  the  pen ;  but  after  a 
flowing  [tide  comes  the  ebb.  The  ebb,  the  ebb,  Signior 
Davy !  ’ 

‘  True,  dear  sir - ’ 

‘Why,  then,  consider  the  wonders  of  the  pen  !  It  forms 
loving  words,  maybe,  to  the  Queen  our  good  sister,  to  the 
Most  Christian  King  our  brother-in-law,  to  our  uncle  the 
Cardinal,  to  our  cousin  Guise,  to  our  loving  cousin  Henry 
Darnley ;  and  by  the  very  love  it  imparts,  by  tender  stroke 
upon  stroke,  the  ebb,  Signior  Davy,  carries  tenderness 
back;  in  smaller  waves,  ’tis  true,  but  oh,  Signior  Davy, 
they  reach  the  heart !  And  how  widely  they  spread  out ! 
To  suffuse  the  great  sea  !  Is  it  not  so  ?  ’ 

‘  The  image  is  ingenious  and  poetical,’  said  the  Italian. 
‘  I  confess  that  I  have  a  feeling  for  poetry.  I  am  a 
musician.’ 

The  Secretary  put  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  ‘  Set  my 
words  to  music,  my  man.  You  shall  hear  them  sung  at  a 
marriage  door.  All  Scotland  shall  sing  them.’ 

‘  Do  you  think  Monsieur  de  Moray  will  sing  them  ?  ’ 

The  Secretary  touched  his  mouth.  ‘  Our  present 
music,’  he  said,  ‘  should  be  chamber-music,  not  brayed 
from  the  housetops  out  of  brass.  But  I  am  no  musician. 
Let  us  talk  of  other  things.  I  have  May  in  my  mood,  do 
you  know.  This  day,  Signior  David,  May  hath  shone 
upon  December.  Do  you  see  a  chaplet  on  my  silver 
pow  ?  ’ 

‘  Ah  !  La  Fiamminga  has  been  kind  ?  ’  asked  the  Italian, 
knowing  with  whom  he  had  to  deal. 

‘You  are  pleased  to  say  so,’  said  the  Secretary.  ‘  Know 


CH.  IX 


AIR  OF  ST.  ANDREW 


127 


then,  my  dear  sir,  since  there  are  to  be  no  secrets  to  keep 
us  apart,  that  I  am  a  happy  man.  For,  sitting  with  our 
mistress  upon  that  great  needlework  of  theirs,  I  found  a 
certain  fair  lady  very  busy  over  a  skewered  heart.  “  Come 
hither,  Mr.  Secretary,”  saith  our  mistress,  with  that  look 
aslant  which  you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  “Come  hither,” 
saith  she,  “  and  judge  whether  Fleming  hath  well  tinct  this 
heart.”  I  overlooked  the  piece.  “  Oh,  madam,”  say  I,  “  the 
organ  should  be  more  gules  :  this  tincture  is  false  heraldry. 
And  the  wound  goes  deeper.”  My  fair  one,  in  a  flutter, 
curtsied  and  left  the  presence.  Then  saith  our  Queen, 
with  one  pretty  finger  admonishing,  “  Fie,  Mr.  Secretary, 
if  you  read  so  well  now,  before  the  letter  is  in  your  hand, 
what  will  you  do  when  you  have  it  in  your  bosom  to  con 
at  your  leisure  ?  ”  I  had  no  answer  for  her  but  the  true 
one,  which  was  and  shall  ever  be,  “Why,  then,  madam,  I 
shall  have  it  by  heart ,  and  your  Majesty  two  lovers  in  the 
room  of  one.”  I  put  it  fairly,  I  think  ;  at  least,  she  thanked 
me.  Now,  am  I  a  happy  man,  Master  David,  think  you  ? 
With  the  kindness  of  my  prince  and  the  heart  of  my 
dear  !  Sir,  sir,  serve  the  Queen  in  this  matter  of  the 
young  Lord  of  Darnley.  He  is  in. Scotland  now;  I  believe 

at  Glasgow.  But  we  expect  him  here,  and -  Oh,  sir, 

serve  the  Queen  !  ’ 

The  Italian,  who  was  fatigued  by  a  rhapsody  which 
did  not  at  all  interest  him,  wagged  his  hands  about,  up 
and  down,  like  a  rope-dancer  that  paddles  the  air  for  his 
balance. 

‘  Va  bene ,  va  beney  va  bene !  ’  he  cried  fretfully. 
‘  Understood,  my  good  sir.  But  will  this  serve  the 
Queen  ?  ’ 

‘If  I  did  not  think  so,’  returned  the  Secretary  —  and 
really  believed  this  was  the  answer  —  ‘if  I  did  not  think 
so,  would  my  Lord  of  Moray,  should  I,  press  it  upon 
you  ?  ’ 

Signior  David  shrugged  —  but  you  could  not  have  seen 
it.  ‘  What  is  this  young  man  ?  ’  he  asked. 

‘  It  is  impossible  that  you  know  so  little.  He  is  of  the 
blood  royal  by  the  mother’s  side.  He  is  next  in  title  to 
this  throne,  and  to  the  other  after  my  mistress.’ 


128 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


The  Italian  waved  all  this  away.  ‘  Understood ! 
Understood  already!  Do  you  think  I  am  a  dunce? 
Why  am  I  here,  or  why  are  you  here,  if  I  am  dunce  ?  I 
ask  you  again,  What  is  he?  Is  he  a  man?  or  is  he  a 
minion  —  a  half,  a  quarter  man  ?  Do  you  know,  Mr. 
Secretary,  that  he  has  got  to  serve  Dame  Venus?  Do 
you  know  that  he  may  drown  in  the  Honeypot  ?  Pooh, 
sir  !  I  ask  you,  can  he  swim  ?  He  will  need  the  faculty. 

I  could  tell  you,  for  example,  of  one  lord -  But  no ! 

I  will  not.’  He  hushed  his  voice  to  an  awed  whisper, 
seeming  to  reason  with  himself:  ‘  Here,  upon  my  conscience, 
is  a  woman  all  clear  flame,  who  has  never  yet —  never  yet  — 
met  with  a  man.  Here  is  a  Cup  of  the  spirit  of  honey 
and  wine.  Who  is  going  to  set  the  match  to  kindle  this 
quick  essence  !  Who  is  about  to  dare  ?  Why,  why,  why, 

—  all  your  drabbled  Scotland  may  go  roaring  out  in  such 
a  blaze  !  Corpo  di  sangne  e  sanguinaccio  !  ’  His  excite¬ 
ment  carried  him  far ;  but  soon  he  was  beaming  upon 
Lethington,  reasonable  again.  ‘  Let  us  change  the  figure, 
and  come  down.  Dame  Venus  is  asleep  as  yet,  but 
uneasy  in  her  sleep,  stirring  to  the  dawn.  She  dreams — 
ha !  And  maids  belated  can  dream,  I  assure  you.  Is 
this  young  man  a  Man  ?  Lo,  now !  There  is  my  question 
of  you.’ 

Mr.  Secretary  was  alarmed.  His  teeth  showed,  and  his 
eyes  did  not. 

‘You  go  too  near,  you  go  too  near.’ 

But  the  Italian  was  now  calm. 

‘  My  friend,’  he  said,  ‘  I  am  not  of  your  race  —  sniffing 
about,  nosing  for  ever,  wondering  if  you  dare  venture.  I 
am  at  least  a  man  in  this,  that  I  dare  anything  with  my 
mind.’ 

Mr.  Secretary  agreed  with  him.  ‘  I  assure  you,  Signior 
Davy,’  he  said,  ‘  that  my  Lord  of  Darnley  is  a  fine  young 
man.’ 

The  Italian  threw  up  his  hands.  ‘  Eh  —  allora  !  All  is 
said,  and  I  go  to  work.  Sir,  I  salute  you.  Addio.' 

And  to  work  he  went,  in  the  manner  already  indicated : 

—  ‘To  draw  the  Queen  into  the  net  of  this  fine  young 
man  but  one  thing  is  needful :  she  must  run  there  for 


CH.  IX 


AIR  OF  ST.  ANDREW 


129 


shelter.  She  is  a  quail  at  this  hour,  grouting  at  ease  in 
the  dusty  furrow.  If  we  are  to  help  this  favoured  fowler 
we  must  send  over  her  a  kite.’ 

Alas  for  friendship !  His  kite  of  election  was  Monsieur 
de  Chatelard.  It  will  not  be  denied  that  the  poet  did  his 
share;  but  there  were  two  kites  sent  up.  Sir  James 
Melvill  came  back  from  England. 

Meantime  it  should  be  said  that  there  was  truth  in  the 
report.  The  young  Lord  Darnley  was  actually  in  Scot¬ 
land.  Some  held  that  he  was  in  Lord  Seton’s  house  in 
the  Canongate,  others  that  Glasgow  had  him.  There  was 
some  doubt ;  but  all  the  Court  knew  of  his  presence,  and 
talked  of  little  else.  The  Queen  maintained  her  air  of 
tutored  virgin,  while  Mary  Livingstone  openly  thanked 
God  that  Scotland  owned  a  man  in  it  at  last.  This 
honest  girl  had  worked  herself  into  a  fevered  suspicion  of 
everything  breeched  at  Court. 

Sir  James  Melvill,  when  he  sent  up  his  name  for  an 
audience,  had  to  run  the  cross-fire  of  the  maids’  ante¬ 
room  first.  Few  could  bear  the  brunt  better  than  he. 

‘H’m,  h’m,  fair  ladies,  what  am  I  to  tell  you?  He’s  a 
likely  lad  enough  for  a  valentine;  for  a  kiss-and-blush, 
jog-o’-my-knee,  nobody’s-coming,  pert  jessamy.  Oh,  ay ! 
He  can  lead  a  dance  more  than  a  little —  Pavane,  Galliard, 
what  you  will  of  the  kind  :  advance  a  leg,  turn  a  maid 
about,  require  a  little  favour,  and  ken  what  to  do  wi’t. 
He  hath  a  seat  for  a  horse,  and  a  rough  tongue  for  a 
groom.  Ay,  ay  !  young  Adonis  ardent  for  the  chase,  he  is  ; 
and  as  smooth  on  the  chin  as  a  mistress.’ 

They  laughed  at  him,  while  Master  Adam  of  Gordon, 
page  at  the  door,  rubbed  his  own  sharp  chin,  and  could 
have  sworn  there  was  a  hair.  The  usher  came  for  Sir 
James,  and  cut  pretty  Seton  short  in  her  clamour  for  more. 

He  found  his  mistress  and  the  Italian  in  the  cabinet, 
their  heads  together  over  a  chapter  of  Machiavel.  He 
knew  the  book  well,  and  could  have  sworn  to  the  look 
of  the  close  page.  They  sprang  apart ;  at  least  Riccio 
sprang  ;  the  Queen  looked  up  at  the  wall  and  did  not 
face  about  for  a  while,  but  sat  pondering  the  book,  over 


130 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  1 


which  she  had  clasped  her  two  hands.  She  was  turning 
a  ring  about  and  about,  round  and  round ;  and  it  seemed 
to  Sir  James,  who  saw  most  things,  that  this  had  been 
upon  the  book  while  the  two  heads  were  bent  over  it. 
They  had  been  trying  the  Sortes,  then !  —  the  Sors 
Mac hiav  el  liana ,  eh  ? 

When,  after  a  time  of  suspense,  she  turned,  to  lift  him 
a  careless  hand,  limp  to  the  touch  and  cold  to  kiss,  he 
knew  that  she  had  been  schooling  herself.  She  was 
extremely  composed  —  too  much  so,  he  judged;  he  had 
no  belief  in  her  languid  manner.  She  asked  him  a  few 
questions  about  her  ‘  good  sister  ’  ;  nothing  of  anybody 
else.  What  did  her  sister  think  of  the  marriage  ?  Sir 
James  lurked  in  the  fastnesses  of  platitude.  Her  English 
Majesty  had  deeply  at  heart  this  Queen’s  welfare ;  he 
turned  it  many  ways,  but  always  came  back  to  that.  As 
he  had  been  sure  she  would,  after  a  little  of  it,  Queen 
Mary  grew  irritable,  and  drew  out  into  the  open.  ‘  Peace 
to  your  empty  professions,  Master  Melvill.  They  are  little 
to  my  liking.  Did  my  sister  send  the  Lord  Darnley  into 
Scotland  ?  ’ 

Here  he  had  it.  ‘  Madam,’  quoth  Sir  James,  ‘  I  will 
not  affirm  it.  And  yet  I  believe  that  she  was  glad  for  him 
to  go.’ 

‘  Why  so  ?  why  so  ?  ’ 

‘  I  nail  my  judgment,  madam,  to  this  solid  beam  of  truth, 
that  my  lord  got  his  conge  after  but  two  refusals  of  it.’ 

‘  Why  should  he  be  refused  ?  ’ 

‘Madam,  for  your  Grace’s  sake;  because  her  English 
Majesty  thinks  meanly  of  him  beside  yourself.’ 

‘He  is  of  royal  blood  —  but  let  that  be  as  it  may.  If 
he  was  first  refused  upon  that  account,  why  then  was  he 
afterwards  allowed  ?  ’ 

Sir  James  twinkled.  I  have  said  that  he,  as  well  as  the 
Italian,  had  a  kite  to  send  up,  to  drive  this  quail  into  the 
net  of  marriage.  He  now  had  his  opportunity  to  fly  it. 
‘  Oh,  madam,’  he  replied,  ‘  this  young  Lord  of  Darnley  was 
not  the  only  courtier  anxious  to  travel  the  North  road: 
there  was  another,  as  your  Majesty  knows.  And  if  the 
English  Queen  let  one  go  at  the  last  it  was  in  regard  for 


CH.  IX 


AIR  OF  ST.  ANDREW 


131 


the  other.  It  was  for  fear  lest  you  should  win  my  Lord 
Robert  Dudley.’ 

The  Queen  grew  red.  ‘  Win  ?  Win  ?  This  is  a  strange 
word  to  use,  Mr.  Legate.  Am  I  hunting  husbands,  then  ?  ’ 

‘  It  is  not  my  word,  madam.  I  can  assure  your  Majesty 
that  both  the  word  and  the  suspicion  are  the  English 
Queen’s.  It  is  thus  she  herself  thinks  of  my  Lord  Robert 
—  as  of  a  prize  to  be  sought.  But  my  Lord  Darnley  she 
calls  “  that  long  lad.”  ’ 

‘  He  is  my  cousin,  and  her  own.  He  shall  be  welcome 
here  when  he  comes  —  if  he  comes.  But  it  mislikes  me 
greatly  to  suppose  him  sent  out  from  England,  a  scapegoat 
into  the  wilderness.’  She  frowned,  and  bit  her  lip;  she 
looked  haggard,  rather  cruel.  ‘  A  scapegoat  into  the 
wilderness  !  Robert  Dudley’s  scapegoat !  ’ 

You  may  cheapen  a  man  by  a  phrase;  but  sometimes 
the  same  phrase  will  cheapen  you.  Hateful  thought  to 
her,  that  she  was  casting  a  net  for  Robert  Dudley  !  And 
not  she  only  ;  there  were  two  panting  Queens  after  him ; 
and  this  high-descended  Harry  Stuart —  a  decoy  to  call  one 
off  !  Sir  James,  greatly  tickled,  was  about  to  speak  again  ; 
his  mouth  was  open  already  when  he  caught  the  Italian’s 
wary  eye.  That  said,  ‘  For  Jesu’s  sake  no  more,  or  you 
spoil  a  fine  shot.’  So  Sir  James  held  his  peace.  She  sent 
away  the  pair  of  them,  and  sat  alone. 

Something  bitter  had  been  stirred,  which  staled  all  her 
hopes  and  made  sour  all  her  dreams.  To  ‘  win  ’  Robert 
Dudley  !  Oh,  abhorred  hunt,  abhorred  huntress  !  Quick 
as  thought  came  the  counter  query  :  Was  it  worse  to  hunt 
one  man  than  seek  to  be  hunted  by  another  —  to  seek  it, 
do  you  mind?  to  love  the  pursuit,  ah,  and  to  entreat  it? 
There  came  up  a  vision  to  flood  her  with  shame  —  the  old 
vision  of  the  laughing  red  mouth,  the  jutting  beard,  the 
two  ribald  eyes.  These  were  not  a  hunter’s,  O  God ; 
these  cared  not  to  move  unless  they  were  enticed  !  These 
belonged  to  a  man  who  waited,  sure  of  himself  and  sure  of 
his  comforts,  while  she  (like  a  hen-sparrow)  trailed  her 
wing  to  call  him  on.  Panic  seized  her — her  heart  stood 
still.  What  had  she  done,  wanton  decoy  that  she  was  ? 
And  what  had  he  done  — with  her  glove  ?  Where  had  he 


132 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


put  it  ?  Anywhere  !  Let  it  lie  !  Oh,  but  she  must  have 
it  again  at  all  costs.  She  must  send  for  it.  Oh,  unworthy 
huntress,  abhorred  hunt ! 

She  must  have  a  new  messenger.  Adam  Gordon  must 
ride  into  Edinburgh,  show  a  ring  to  the  Earl  of  Bothwell, 
and  ask  for  a  packet  of  hers.  He  was  not  to  speak  of  his 
journey  to  a  soul  about  the  Court  —  on  his  life,  not  a  word 
to  Des-Essars  :  he  was  not  to  return  without  the  packet. 
‘  Go  now,  Adam,  and  haste,  haste,  haste  !  ’  She  lashed 
herself  ill  over  this  melancholy  business,  and  went  to  bed 
early. 

This  was  the  night — when  she  had  congealed  herself 
by  remorse  into  the  semblance  of  a  nun  —  this  was  the  night 
of  all  in  the  year  chosen  by  Monsieur  de  Chatelard  for  his 
great  second  essay.  Rather,  the  Italian  sought  him  out  and 
urged  him  to  it.  ‘  Hail,  sublime  adventurer  !  ’  the  kite-flyer 
had  cried,  the  moment  he  met  with  him. 

‘  I  accept  the  title,’  replied  Monsieur  de  Chatelard,  ‘but 
deprecate  it  as  prematurely  bestowed.’ 

‘  Not  so,  my  friend,’  says  the  Italian ;  ‘  but  if  I  know 
anything  of  women,  there  may  be  this  night  a  very  pretty 
mating  —  as  of  turtles  in  March.  A  word  in  your  ear. 
Her  Majesty  has  retired.  So  early  !  cry  you  ?  Even  so. 
And  why  ?  Ah,  but  you  shall  ask  me  nothing  more. 
To-morrow  I  shall  not  even  inquire  how  you  do.  Your 
face  will  proclaim  you.’ 

Monsieur  de  Chatelard  embraced  his  friend.  ‘  Be  sure 
of  my  remembrance,  immortal  Italian.’ 

‘  I  am  perfectly  sure  of  it,’  answered  Signior  Davy ;  and 
the  moment  after  shrugged  him  out  of  his  mind.  This  is 
what  your  politician  should  always  do  :  remember  a  friend 
just  so  long  as  he  is  like  to  be  useful. 

He  never  had  speech  with  him  again.  The  miserable 
young  man,  detected  in  a  moment  in  filthy  intention, 
perhaps  washed  out  the  stain  by  a  certain  dignity  of 
carriage,  whose  difficulty  alone  may  have  made  it  noble. 
This  fool’s  Queen  —  his  peascod,  melting  beauty  of  a  few 
weeks  since  —  was  certainly  a  splendour  to  behold,  though 
the  eyes  that  looked  on  her  were  dying  eyes.  A  white 
splendour  of  chastity,  moon-chilled,  sharp  as  a  sleet-storm 


CH.  IX 


AIR  OF  ST.  ANDREW 


133 


on  a  frozen  moor,  —  she  had  burned  him  before  —  now  she 
struck  ice  into  his  very  marrow.  The  caught  thief, 
knowing  his  fate,  admired  while  he  dared  this  Queen  of 
Snow  and  the  North.  For  dare  her  he  did. 

‘  What  have  you  to  say,  twice  a  dog  ?  ’ 

4  Nothing,  madam.’ 

'Judge  yourself.  Lay  your  soiled  hands  upon  yourself.’ 

‘  Kill  me,  madam.’ 

‘  Never !  But  you  shall  die.’ 

He  died  at  the  Market  Cross  after  a  fortnight’s  prepara¬ 
tion,  as  he  had  not  lived,  a  gentleman  at  last.  For,  by 
some  late  access  of  grace  which  is  hard  to  understand,  she 
accorded  him  the  axe  instead  of  the  rope.  He  sent  many 
times  for  his  friend  the  Italian,  and  at  his  latest  hour,  when 
he  knew  he  would  not  come,  asked  the  headsman  to  present 
him  with  his  rosary.  The  headsman  would  not  touch  the 
accursed  idol. 

‘  If  you  touch  me,  you  touch  a  thing  far  more  accursed,’ 
said  the  condemned  man,  ‘  to  whom  a  death  resembling 
that  of  his  Saviour’s  companions  in  torment  would  be 
infinite  honour.’  He  made  his  preparations,  and  said  his 
prayers.  There  were  people  at  every  window. 

It  had  happened  that  my  Lord  of  Darnley,  with  a  fine 
train  of  horsemen,  having  sent  in  his  humble  suit  to  the 
Queen  and  received  an  answer,  witnessed  the  ceremony : 
or  so  they  say.  He  divided  attention  with  the  departing 
guest.  All  observed  him,  that  he  sat  his  horse  well  —  easily, 
with  a  light  hand  ever  ready  at  the  rein  to  get  back  the 
fretful  head.  He  watched  every  detail  of  the  execution, 
looking  on  as  at  a  match  of  football  among  sweating 
apprentices,  with  half-shut,  sulky  eyes.  He  spoke  a  few 
words  to  his  attendants. 

‘  Who  is  our  man  ?  ’ 

'They  say  a  Frenchman,  my  lord.  Chatler  by  name.’ 

‘  To  whom  is  he  speaking,  then  ?  Watch  his  hand  at 
his  heart.  Now  ’tis  at  his  lips!  He  makes  a  bow,  — will 
they  never  finish  with  him  ?  How  are  we  to  break  through  ! 
They  should  truss  him.’ 

A  young  man  behind  him  laughed  ;  but  my  lord  con¬ 
tinued  :  ‘  But  —  now  look,  look  !  Will  he  never  have  done  ? 


BK.  I 


134  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

There  are  women  at  all  the  windows.  See  that  French 
hood  up  there.’ 

‘  ’Tis  a  woman’s  business,  my  lord.  They  say  that  this 
fellow - ’  The  young  man  whispered  in  his  ear. 

My  lord  made  no  sign,  except  to  say,  ‘My  cousin  is  hard 
upon  a  forward  lover.’ 

‘  Nay,  sir.  Say,  rather,  on  a  lover  too  backward.’ 

He  got  no  answer  from  his  prince.  All  looked,  as  there 
fell  on  all  a  dead  hush.  The  crowd  thrilled  and  surged : 
utter  silence  —  then  a  heavy  stroke  —  all  the  voices  began 
again  together,  swelling  to  one  shrill  cry.  Chatelard,  poor 
kite,  flew  a  loftier  course. 

The  cavalcade  began  to  drive  through  the  maze  of 
people,  pikemen  going  before  with  pikes  not  idle.  ‘  Room 
for  the  prince  !  Room,  rogues,  room  !  ’ 


CHAPTER  X 

THEY  LOOK  AND  LIKE 

He  was  rather  stiff  in  the  garden  ;  rather  too  tall  for  the 
raftered  rooms  of  the  burgess’  house.  He  did  not  lend 
himself  readily  to  the  snug  cheer  which  was  the  rule  at 
Saint  Andrews.  Des-Essars  has  recorded  the  fancy  that 
he  was  like  that  boy  who  comes  home  from  school,  and 
straightens  himself  in  his  mother’s  embrace  ;  ‘  not  because 
he  loves  her  the  less,  but  that  he  knows  himself  to  be  more 
than  when,  six  months  ago,  he  parted  from  her  with  tears.’ 
This  lordly  youth  cropped  his  English  words,  and  stammered 
and  blushed  when  he  tried  the  French.  He  laughed  gaily 
to  hear  the  Italian  staccato  run  its  flight  —  like  a  finch  that 
dips  and  rises  as  he  wings  across  the  meadow.  ‘  Monkey- 
speech,’  my  young  lord  called  it. 

In  all  respects  he  was  on  the  threshold.  None  of  the 
deeper,  inner  speech  of  their  daily  commerce  came  near 
him ;  he  ignored,  because  he  did  not  see,  the  little  tricks 
and  chances,  the  colour,  significance,  allusiveness  of  it. 
What  was  the  poor  youth  to  do?  He  had  never  journeyed 
with  the  stored  gallants  of  the  Heptameron ,  nor  whispered 
to  the  ladies  of  Boccaccio’s  glades.  He  thought  Brada- 
mante  a  good  name  for  a  horse,  and  Margutte  something 
to  eat.  The  Queen  rallied  him,  the  maids  looked  out  of 
window ;  Mr.  Secretary  exchanged  glances  with  his  Flem¬ 
ing,  Signior  David  bowed  and  bowed.  But  this  Italian 
was  comfortable,  seeing  his  ships  homeward  bound.  In 
rapid  vernacular,  as  he  lay  late  in  his  bed,  he  told  himself 

*35 


136  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  i 

that  the  French  poet  could  not  have  chosen  a  better  night 
for  his  extinguishing. 

‘  That  was  a  night,  one  sees,  when  she  suddenly  sickened 
of  low  company,  having  suddenly  viewed  it  and  been 
shocked  :  of  me,  and  the  fat  Bothwell,  and  all  these  cuddling 
nymphs  and  boys.  Our  Chatelard  was  the  last  loathly 
morsel,  the  surfeit  after  the  Ambassador’s  bolus.  Certainly, 
certainly !  I  saw  her  go  white  at  his  “winning  ”  of  the  English 
favourite  :  how  a  word  may  stick  in  a  gizzard  !  Then  comes 
my  late  friend,  hiding  for  favours  under  the  bed.  “ Dio 
mio ,”  she  cries,  “do  I  live  in  a  lupanar ?  O  Santo  Padre, 
let  me  henceforward  mate  only  with  eagles !  ’’  ’ 

He  expressed  himself  coarsely,  being  what  he  was ;  but 
no  doubt  he  was  perfectly  right. 

My  Lord  of  Darnley,  then  —  this  eagle — was  a  very  hand¬ 
some  youth,  clean,  buxom,  and  vividly  prosperous.  He 
had  the  most  beautiful  slim  body  you  ever  saw  on  a  young 
man ;  and  long  legs,  in  whose  shape  he  evidently  —  and 
reasonably  —  took  delight.  He  had  that  trick  of  standing 
with  his  feet  apart  —  grooms  induce  their  horses  to  it  with 
the  tickling  of  a  whip  —  and  arms  akimbo,  which,  with  its 
blended  savour  of  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes  and  a  French 
dancer,  gives  a  man  the  air  of  jaunty  readiness  for  all 
comers,  and  always  a  hint  of  gallantry.  His  head  was 
small  and  well  set-on,  his  colour  fresh  ;  his  eyes  were  bright 
and  roving.  Yet  no  one  could  look  more  profoundly  stupid 
than  he  when  he  chose  to  be  displeased  with  what  was 
saying.  His  lips  were  red,  and  like  a  woman’s ;  he  had  a 
strong,  straight  nose,  and  strong  hair,  short  and  curling,  in 
colour  a  hot  yellow.  Good-natured  he  looked,  and  vain, 
and  courageous.  Mary  Seton  considered  him  a  dunce,  but 
Mary  Beaton  denied  it.  She  said  he  was  English. 

The  day  of  his  coming,  the  Queen  received  him  in  the 
Long  Parlour,  dressed  mostly  in  white,  with  a  little  black 
here  and  there.  She  stood  about  mid-floor,  with  her 
women,  pages,  and  gentlemen  of  the  household,  and  tried 
in  vain  to  control  her  excitement.  Those  who  knew  her 
best,  either  by  opportunity  or  keen  study,  considered  that 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  already.  This  was  a  marriage, 


CH.  X 


THEY  LOOK  AND  LIKE 


137 


this  meeting  of  cousins :  here  in  her  white  and  faint  rose, 
shivering  like  the  dawn  on  the  brink  of  new  day,  with  fixed 
eyes  and  quick  breath  —  here  among  her  maidens  stood  the 
bride.  Appearances  favoured  the  guess  —  which  yet  re¬ 
mained  a  guess.  She  had  travelled  far  and  awfully ;  but 
had  told  no  one,  spoken  no  whispers  of  her  journeyings 
since  that  day  of  shame  and  a  burning  face,  when  she  had 
sent  Adam  Gordon  to  Edinburgh  Castle,  heard  Melvill’s 
message,  and  scared  away  Chatelard  to  his  dog’s  death. 
Not  a  soul  knew  where  her  soul  had  been,  or  whither  it  had 
now  flown  for  refuge :  but  two  guessed,  and  one  other  had 
an  inkling  —  the  judging  Italian. 

They  used  very  little  ceremony  at  Saint  Andrews. 
The  Queen  hated  it.  An  usher  at  the  stair’s  foot  called 
up  the  Prince’s  style,  and  could  be  heard  plainly  in  the 
parlour ;  yet  Mr.  Erskine,  Captain  of  the  Guard,  repeated 
it  at  the  door.  There  followed  the  clatter  of  a  few  men- 
at-arms,  a  trampling,  one  or  two  hasty  voices  —  Lething- 
ton’s  whisper  among  them  (he  always  shrilled  his  s’ s) ; 
then  the  anxious  face  of  the  Secretary  showed  itself.  The 
young  lord,  dressed  in  white  satin,  with  a  white  velvet 
cloak  on  one  shoulder,  and  the  collar  of  SS  round  his  neck, 
stooped  his  head  at  the  door,  and  went  down  stiffly  on  one 
knee.  Behind  him,  in  the  entry,  you  could  count  heads  and 
shoulders,  see  the  hues  of  red,  crimson,  claret  —  feathers, 
a  beam  of  light  on  a  steel  breastplate.  He  had  come  well 
squired.  ‘  Welcome,  cousin,’  said  the  Queen  shyly,  in  a 
low  and  calling  tone.  My  young  lord  rose ;  two  steps 
brought  him  before  her.  He  knelt  again,  and  would  have 
received  her  hand  upon  his  own  ;  but  she  looked  down 
brightly  at  his  bent  and  golden  head  —  looked  down  like 
a  considering  bird  ;  and  then  (it  was  a  pretty  act) — ‘Wel¬ 
come,  cousin  Henry,’  she  said  again,  and  gave  him  both 
her  hands.  He  was  afoot  in  a  moment,  and  above  her. 
To  meet  his  look  downwards  she  must  lift  hers  up.  ‘  Wel¬ 
come,  cousin,’  once  more;  and  then  she  offered  him  her 
cheek.  He  kissed  her,  grew  hot  as  fire,  looked  very 
foolish,  and  dropped  her  hands  as  if  they  burnt  him. 

But  he  led  her  —  she  not  unwilling  —  to  her  chair,  and 
sat  beside  her  the  moment  she  invited  him.  She  was 


138 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


bashful  at  first,  blushed  freely  and  talked  fast;  he  was 
stiff,  soldierly,  blunt :  when  she  was  beyond  him  he  made 
no  attempt  to  catch  her  up.  Those  bold  eyes  of  his  were 
as  blank  as  the  windows  of  an  empty  house.  They  did 
not  at  all  disconcert  her :  on  the  contrary,  she  seemed  to 
see  in  his  inertia  the  princely  phlegm,  and  to  take  delight 
in  lowering  the  key  of  her  speech  to  the  droning  formalities 
of  an  audience.  The  difficulty  of  it,  to  her  quick,  well- 
charged  mind,  was  a  spur  to  her  whole  being.  You  could 
see  her  activities  at  drill ;  the  more  stupid  she  strove  to  be, 
the  more  spiritual  she  showed.  She  took  enormous  pains 
to  set  him  at  his  ease,  and  so  far  succeeded  that  (though  she 
could  not  clarify  his  brains)  she  loosened  his  tongue  and 
eye-strings.  He  was  soon  at  his  favourite  trick  of  looking 
about  him ;  passed  all  the  maids  in  review,  and  preferred 
Livingstone  to  any  :  next  to  her  Seton  —  ‘  a  pretty,  soft 
rogue.’  He  saw  and  knew,  but  did  not  choose  to  recognise, 
Lady  Argyll. 

Certain  presentations  followed.  Englishmen  were 
brought  up  to  kiss  hands  —  tall,  well-set-up,  flaxen  young 
men  :  a  Standen,  a  Curzon  of  Derbyshire,  a  Throckmorton, 
nephew  of  an  old  acquaintance  in  France,  a  Gresham,  etc., 
etc.  After  these  came  one  Scot.  ‘  Madam,  my  kinsman 
Douglas.’ 

There  came  stooping  before  her  a  certain  Archie 
Douglas  of  Whittinghame,  remotely  of  the  prince’s  blood, 
but  more  nearly  of  the  red  Chancellor  Morton’s.  He  was 
a  young  man,  exceedingly  thin,  with  a  burnt  red  face, 
shifty  eyes,  a  smile,  and  grey  hair  which  did  not  make 
him  look  old.  Black  was  his  wear,  with  a  plain  white  ruff. 

4 1  have  heard  of  you,  Master  Douglas,’  says  the  Queen, 
measuring  her  words.  ‘  You  are  a  priest  in  Israel  after  the 
order  of  Mr.  Knox.’ 

‘  An  humble  minister,  madam,  so  please  your  Majesty.’ 

‘  Ah,  my  pleasure ,  sir  !  ’  She  would  not  look  at  him 
any  more,  either  then  or  ever  after.  She  used  to  call  him 
the  Little  Grey  Wolf.  Now,  whether  is  it  better  for  a  man 
to  be  spoken  by  his  sovereign  in  discomfortable  riddles, 
than  not  at  all?  This  was  the  question  which  Archie 
Douglas  put  to  himself  many  times  the  day. 


CH.  X 


THEY  LOOK  AND  LIKE 


139 


The  Queen  would  have  honours  nearly  royal  paid  to 
the  young  prince.  The  officers  of  the  household,  the 
ladies,  were  all  presented;  and  all  must  kiss  his  hand. 
But  all  did  not.  Lord  Lindsay  did  not ;  Mr.  Erskine  did 
not,  but  saluted  him  stiffly  and  withdrew  behind  the 
throne.  Mr.  Secretary  did  it ;  Lord  Ruthven  did  it 
elaborately ;  Lady  Argyll  changed  her  mind  midway,  and 
did  it.  The  Italian  secretary,  last  of  all,  went  down  on 
both  his  knees,  and,  looking  him  straight  in  the  face,  cried 
out,  ‘  Salut,  O  mon  prince !  ’  which,  under  the  circum¬ 
stances,  was  too  much.  But  the  Queen  was  to  be  pleased 
with  everything  that  day,  it  seemed,  for  it  delighted  her. 

As  he  went  home  to  his  lodging  Signior  David  talked 
to  himself.  ‘  As  well  expect  to  weld  butter  and  a  knife, 
or  Madonna  and  a  fish-headed  god  of  Egypt  as  the  Queen 
with  this  absorbed  self-lover.  If  she  wed  him  not  in  a 
month  she  will  kill  him  sooner  than  take  him.’ 

And  Des-Essars  records  in  his  Memoirs :  ‘The  prince 
pleased  on  horseback,  whence  he  should  never  have 
descended.  I  suspect  that  he  knew  that  himself;  for  he 
straddled  his  legs  in  the  house  as  if  to  keep  up  the  illusion 
and  strengthen  himself  by  it  He  was  a  fine  rider.  But 
women  are  not  mares.’ 

Nevertheless,  Mary  Livingstone  had  guessed,  Des-Essars 
had  guessed,  the  truth  or  near  it.  This  ceremony  of  meet¬ 
ing  was  as  good  as  a  betrothal;  though  why  it  was  so,  was 
not  for  them  to  understand.  The  explanation  is  to  be 
sought  in  the  chasing,  flying,  starting  life  of  the  soul, 
hunting  (or  being  hunted)  apart  in  its  secret,  shadowy 
world.  There  come  moments  in  that  wild  life  when  the 
ardours  of  the  chase  slacken  and  tire ;  when,  falling  down 
to  rest,  the  soul  catches  sight  of  itself,  as  mirrored  in  still 
water.  That  is  the  time  when  enchantment  may  go  to 
work  to  disenchant,  and  show  the  horrible  reality.  ‘  What !  ’ 
might  cry  this  girl’s  soul:  ‘this  rumpled  baggage  a  maid 
royal !  This  highway-huntress,  panting  after  one  man  or 
the  other,  thrilling  like  a  cook-wench  because  that  man  or 
this  has  cast  an  eye  on  you  !  Oh,  whither  are  fled  the  ensigns 
of  the  great  blood  ?  Where  hides  the  Right  Divine  ? 
Where  are  the  emblems  of  Scotland,  England,  and  France  ? 


140 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


Not  in  these  scratched  hands,  not  behind  these  filmy  eyes  : 
these  are  the  signs  of  Myrrha  and  Pasiphae,  and  sick 
Phaedra.’  Melvill  had  held  up  the  glass,  and  she  had  seen 
herself  toiling  after  Robert  Dudley  ;  Chatelard  had  wiped 
it,  and  behold  her,  trapped  and  netted,  the  game  of  any 
saucy  master.  So,  in  a  passion  of  amendment,  she  lent  to 
Harry  Darnley  all  that  she  feared  to  have  lost.  He  shared 
the  blood  she  had  made  common :  let  him  re-endow  her. 
He  was  the  prince  she  ought  to  have  been.  He  came 
a-courting  with  the  rest;  but  as  royal  suitors  come  — 
solemnly,  with  embassies,  with  treaties  to  be  signed,  and 
trumpets  to  proclaim  the  high  alliance.  To  think  of  Both- 
well’s  beside  this  courtly  wooing  was  an  impossibility. 
Hardy  mercenary,  to  what  had  she  dared  stoop?  To  a 
man  —  God  forgive  her!  —  who  would  hug  a  burgess-wife 
one  day,  and  her — ‘the  French  widow,’  as  he  would  call 
her  —  the  next.  Ah,  horrible!  So  horrible,  so  nearly  her 
fate,  she  could  speak  to  no  one  of  it.  Simply,  she  dared 
not  think  of  it.  She  must  hide  it,  bury  it,  and  go  about 
her  business  by  day.  But  at  night,  when  Fleming  was 
asleep,  she  would  lie  staring  into  the  dusk,  her  two  hands 
at  grip  in  her  bosom,  and  see  shadows  grow  monstrous  on 
the  wall :  Bothwell  and  the  wife  of  the  High  Street,  and 
herself — Dowagerof  France,  Queen  of  Scots,  heiress  of  Eng¬ 
land — at  play.  She  could  have  shrieked  aloud,  and  whined 
for  mercy :  she  seemed  to  be  padding,  like  a  fox  in  a  cage, 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  to  find  an  issue.  Harry  Darnley 
was  the  issue  —  O  Ark  of  Salvation !  Why,  she  had 
known  that  the  very  night  that  Melvill  came  back.  After¬ 
wards,  as  night  succeeded  night,  and  her  eyes  ached  with 
staring  at  the  wall  —  she  knew  it  was  all  the  hope  she  had. 

Then  from  her  window,  watching  the  shivering-out  of 
Chatelard,  she  had  seen  the  prince,  before  his  credentials 
were  presented  —  his  beauty  and  strength  and  calm  manege 
of  his  horse.  Had  he  been  pock-marked,  like  Francis  of 
Alengon,  his  lineage  would  have  enamelled  him  for  her 
eyes.  But  he  was  a  most  proper  man,  tall  and  slim,  high- 
coloured,  disdainful  of  his  company.  He  seemed  not  to 
know  that  there  was  a  world  about  him  to  be  seen.  Securus 
judicat :  Jesu-Maria!  here  was  a  tower  of  defence  to  a 


CH.  X 


THEY  LOOK  AND  LIKE 


141 


smitten  princess  who  saw  all  the  world  like  a  fever-dream  ! 
Her  own  blood,  her  own  name,  age  for  age  with  her. 

You  see  that  she  had  her  own  vein  of  romantic  poetry, 
that  she  could  make  heroic  scenes  in  her  head,  and  play  in 
them,  too,  wonderful  parts.  She  sat  up  in  her  bed  one 
night,  and  shook  her  loose  hair  back,  and  lifted  up  her 
bare  arms  to  the  rafters.  ‘  My  lord,  I  am  not  worthy. 
Yet  come,  brother  and  spouse  !  We  two  upon  the  throne 
—  Scotland  at  our  feet!  ’  Then,  in  the  scene,  he  came  to 
her,  stooping  his  stiff  golden  head.  Jove  himself  came  not 
more  royally  into  the  Tower.  She  lay  all  Danae  to  the 
gold.  Trickery  here.  Thus  body  lords  it  over  soul,  and 
soul — the  wretch  —  takes  his  hire.  She  knew  pure  ecstasy 
that  night ;  for  this  was  a  mating  of  eagles,  you  must 
recollect.  She  bathed  in  fire,  but  it  was  clean  flame. 
Bothwell,  at  any  rate,  seemed  burnt  out — him  and  his 
fierce  arm,  only  one  to  spare  for  ‘the  little  French  widow.’ 

So  much  explanation  seems  necessary  of  how  she  stood, 
in  virginal  tremor  and  flying  cloudy  blushes,  white  and  red 
among  her  maids  —  to  be  chosen  by  her  prince.  She 
intended  him  to  choose :  for  she  had  chosen  already. 

The  prince  sat  at  supper,  late  in  the  evening  of  his 
reception,  with  his  light-haired  Englishmen  and  grey-haired 
Archie  Douglas.  Forrest,  his  chamber-boy,  with  burning 
cheeks  and  eyes  glassy  with  sleep,  leaned  at  the  door. 
His  little  round  head  kept  nodding  even  as  he  stood. 
The  young  lord  laughed  and  fed  his  greyhounds,  which  sat 
up  high  on  their  lean  haunches  and  intently  watched  his 
fingers. 

‘  I  shall  take  those  horses  of  the  Earl’s,’  he  said.  ‘  I 
shall  need  them  now.  I  shall  have  a  stud,  and  breed 
great  horses  for  my  sons.  See  to  it,  Archie.’ 

‘  By  God,  sir,’  said  an  Englishman,  with  hiccoughs, 
‘your  word  may  be  the  law  and  the  prophets  in  this 
country,  and  yet  no  bond  in  England.  They  will  ask  you 
for  sureties.  Well !  I  say,  Get  your  sureties  first.’ 

My  lord  was  not  listening.  He  pulled  a  hound’s  ear, 
screwed  it,  and  smiled  as  he  screwed.  Presently  he 
resumed.  ‘  Did  you  mark  the  greeting  of  Argyll’s  wife, 


142 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


Archie  Douglas  ?  How  she  tried  “  Sir  and  my  cousin,” 
and  thought  better  of  it  ?  I  made  her  dip,  hey  ?  A  black- 
browed,  saucy  quean !  What  kindred  to  me  are  her 
father’s  misfortunes  ?  ’ 

Archie  Douglas  drained  his  glass.  ‘You  hold  them, 
Harry  Darnley  —  the  women.  Yet  remember  you  of  what 
I  told  you  concerning  the  men.  Steer  wide  of  this  ’  —  he 
caressed  the  jug  —  ‘  and  fee  the  Italian.’ 

But  my  Lord  Darnley  got  on  to  his  feet,  and  remained 
there  by  the  aid  of  his  fists  on  the  board.  Very  red  in  the 
face,  and  scowling,  he  talked  with  his  eyes  shut.  ‘  I  shall 
fee  the  Italian  with  the  flat  blade,  you’ll  see.  Greasy 
cushion  of  lard !  A  capon,  a  capon !  And  there’s  your 
red  cousin  Morton  for  you  !  ’ 

‘  He  is  your  cousin  too,  sir,’  says  Archie,  blinking. 

‘  What  of  that,  man,  what  of  that  ?  Let  him  beware 
how  he  cozens  me,  I  say.  Boy,  I  go  to  bed.  Good-night 
to  you,  gentlemen.’ 

They  all  rose  as  he  went  solemnly  away  with  the  boy; 
then  looked  at  one  another  to  see  who  had  marked  him 
reach  out  for  the  door-jamb  and  pull  himself  through  by  it. 
Archie  Douglas  crowed  like  a  cock  and  flapped  his  arms ; 
but  when  the  rest  began  to  laugh  he  slammed  the  table. 
‘  Pass  the  jug,  you  fools.  There  shall  be  japes  in  Scotland 
before  long  —  but,  by  God,  we’ll  not  laugh  until  we’re 
through  the  wood  !  ’ 

News  of  the  Court  for  the  rest  of  the  month  was  this. 
The  Master  of  Sempill  pled  his  own  cause  with  the  Queen, 
and  was  to  have  Mary  Livingstone.  He  had  chosen  his 
time  well;  her  Majesty  was  not  for  refusals  just  now. 

‘  My  dear,  my  dear,  I  shall  need  women  soon,  not 
maids,’  she  had  said,  stroking  the  honest  face.  ‘  You  shall 
come  back  to  me  when  you  are  a  wife,  and  as  like  as  not 
find  me  one  too.  Your  Master  is  a  brave  gentleman.  He 
spoke  up  for  you  finely.’ 

‘  Ay,  madam,  he  hath  a  tongue  of  his  own,’  says 
Livingstone. 

The  Queen  threw  herself  into  her  friend’s  arms.  ‘  No 
Madams  to  me,  child,  while  we  are  in  the  pretty  bonds 


CH.  X 


THEY  LOOK  AND  LIKE 


143 


together,  fellow  cage-birds,  you  and  I.  Come  now,  shall  I 
tell  you  a  secret  ?  Shall  I  ?  ’ 

Livingstone,  caught  in  those  dear  arms,  would  not  look 
into  the  witching  eyes.  ‘Your  secret,  my  dear?  What 
can  you  tell  me  ?  Finely  I  know  your  secret.’ 

The  Queen  sat,  and  drew  the  great  girl  down  to  her 
lap.  ‘  Listen  —  but  listen  !  Last  night  the  prince  .  .  .  ’ : 
and  then  some  wonderful  tale  of  ‘he’  and  ‘him.’ 
‘  Ruthven  says  that  his  ring  of  runes  hath  magic  in  it. 
Some  old  wife,  that  hides  at  Duddingstone,  and  can  only 
be  seen  under  the  three-quarter  moon  by  the  Crags,  she 
hath  charmed  it.  With  that  ring,  rightly  worn,  she  saith, 
a  man  would  swim  the  Solway  at  the  flood  after  the  boat 
that  held  you.  Ruthven  knows  the  truth  of  it,  and  swears 
that  no  man  can  resist  the  power  it  hath.  There  was  a 
case,  which  I  will  tell  you  some  day.  There  is  one  stronger 
yet  —  most  infallible :  a  spell  which  you  weave  at  dawn. 
But  for  that  there  are  certain  things  to  be  done  —  strange, 
strange.’ 

‘No  more  of  them,’  says  Livingstone;  ‘you  have  too 
much  charm  of  your  own.  What  need  of  old  bedeswomen 
have  you  and  your  likes  ?  Ah,  yes,  too  much  charm ! 
Tell  me  now,  Marie;  tell  me  the  truth.  Have  you  your 
glove  back  ?  ’ 

The  Queen  started  violently,  winced  as  if  whipped  in  the 
face  and  turned  flame-red.  Livingstone  was  off  her  lap : 
both  stood. 

‘  What  do  you  speak  of  ?  How  do  you  dare.  Who  has 
betrayed - ?  ’ 


‘  Nobody.  I  saw  that  it  was  gone.  And  lately  you 
sent  Adam  to  the  Castle.’ 

The  Queen  walked  away  to  the  window,  but  presently 
came  back.  ‘  I  think  it  right  that  you  should  understand 
the  very  truth.  That  lord  has  angered  me.  Monstrous 
presumption  !  for  which,  most  rightly,  he  suffered.  Believe 
me,  I  saw  to  it.  But  —  but  —  he  has  a  conscience,  I  think. 
Something  was  told  me  —  made  me  suppose  it.  I  con¬ 
sidered  —  I  gave  long  thought  to  the  case.  A  queen,  in  my 
judgment,  should  not  be  harsh,  for  she  needs  friends.  I 
took  a  temperate  method,  therefore ;  considering  that,  if  he 


144 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


knew  of  my  pain,  perchance  he  would  repent  So  I  sent 
Adam  Gordon  to  Edinburgh,  and  believe  that  I  did  well.’ 
She  paused  there,  but  getting  no  answer,  asked  impatiently, 
‘  Am  I  clear  to  you,  Livingstone  ?  ’ 

‘You  will  never  clear  yourself  that  way,’  says  Living¬ 
stone.  ‘You  could  as  well  expect  the  Rock  to  thaw  into 
tears  as  get  Bothwell  to  repent.  That  is  a  vile  thief,  that 
man.’ 

The  Queen  ran  forward  and  fell  upon  her  bosom.  ‘  Oh, 
I  have  been  ashamed  —  ashamed  —  ashamed!  The  devil 
was  within  me — touching,  moving,  stirring  me.  I  thought 
of  him  night  and  day.  Wicked  !  I  am  very  wicked.  But 
I  have  paid  the  price.  It  is  all  done  with  long  ago.  I  told 
Father  Roche  everything  —  everything,  I  promise  you.  He 
absolved  me  the  day  before  my  prince  came,  or  I  should 
never  have  received  him  as  I  did.  And  can  you,  Mary, 
withhold  from  me  what  the  Church  allows  ?  ’ 

Livingstone  was  crying  freely.  ‘  God  knows,  God  knows, 
I  am  none  to  deny  thee,  sweetheart!  ’  she  murmured  as  she 
kissed  her. 

Second  absolution  for  Queen  Mary. 

The  Court  was  to  go  to  Callander  House  for  the  wedding 
of  this  fond  Livingstone ;  but  before  that  there  was  a  bad 
moment  to  be  endured  —  when  Adam  Gordon  came  back, 
without  the  glove.  They  had  told  him  in  Edinburgh  that 
the  Earl  of  Bothwell  had  broken  bars  and  was  away.  He 
had  gone  to  his  country,  they  said,  and  had  been  heard  of 
there,  hunting  with  the  Black  Laird  and  others  of  his 
friends  —  hunting  men  mostly,  and  Englishmen  too,  over 
the  border.  He  had  sent  word  to  George  Gordon  that,  if 
he  was  willing,  he  would  ‘  raise  his  lambs,  and  pull  him  out 
of  Dunbar  for  a  bout  with  Hell’;  but,  said  the  boy, 
‘  Madam,  my  brother  refused  him.’ 

Adam  had  ridden  into  Liddesdale  to  find  Bothwell,  into 
the  Lammermuirs,  into  Clydesdale :  but  the  Earl  was  in 
none  of  his  castles.  Then  he  went  the  English  road 
towards  Berwick:  got  news  at  Eyemouth.  The  Earl  was 
away.  Two  yawls  had  shipped  him  and  his  servants ;  had 
stood  for  the  south  —  for  France,  it  was  thought.  The 
glove  was  in  his  bosom,  no  doubt. 


CH.  X 


THEY  LOOK  AND  LIKE 


145 


The  Queen  sent  Adam  away  rewarded,  and  had  in 
Des-Essars.  ‘Jean-Marie/  she  said,  ‘my  Lord  Bothwell 
hath  gone  oversea.  Do  you  suppose,  to  France?  ’ 

‘No,  madam;  I  suppose  to  Flanders.’ 

He  seemed  troubled  to  reply  —  evaded  her  looks. 

‘  Why  there  ?  ’ 

‘  Madam,  there  was  a  woman  at  Dunkirk - ’ 

‘  Enough,  enough!  Go,  boy.’ 

She  had  appointed  to  ride  that  day  to  the  hawking. 
The  prince  was  to  be  there,  with  new  peregrines  from 
Zealand.  Now  —  she  would  not  go.  Instead,  she  crept 
into  her  oratory  alone,  and,  having  locked  the  doors,  went 
through  secret  rites.  She  stripped  herself  to  the  shift, 
unbound  her  hair,  took  off  shoes  and  stockings.  With  two 
lit  candles,  one  in  either  hand,  she  stood  stock-still  before  * 
the  crucifix  for  an  hour.  Chilled  to  the  bones,  with  teeth 
chattering  and  fingers  too  stiff  to  find  the  hooks  for  the 
eyes,  she  dressed  herself  then  in  some  fashion,  and  slipped 
quietly  out.  This  was  her  third  absolution.  Thus  she 
froze  out  of  her  heart  the  last  filament  of  tainted  flesh  ;  and 
then,  bright-eyed  and  wholesome,  set  her  face  towards 
the  future. 


CHAPTER  XI 

PROTHALAMIUM  :  VENUS  WINS  FAIR  ADONIS 

Mr.  Thomas  Randolph,  Ambassador  of  England  to  the 
Scottish  Queen,  told  himself  more  than  once  that  in  seeking 
the  lady  of  his  heart  he  did  not  swerve  the  breadth  of  a 
hair  from  loyalty  to  the  sovereign  of  his  destinies.  Yet  he 
found  it  necessary  to  protest  his  wisdom  in  the  letters  he 
wrote  to  his  patron,  the  Earl  of  Leicester.  Mary  Beaton 
was  the  Nut-brown  Maid  of  his  ballatry.  ‘  I  do  assure 
your  lordship,  better  friend  hath  no  man  than  this  worthy 
Mistress  Beaton,  who  vows  herself  to  me,  by  what  sweet 
rites  you  shall  not  ask  me,  the  humble  servant  of  your 
lordship.’ 

All  this  as  it  might  be :  Mary  Beaton  used  to  smile 
when  twitted  by  her  mates  about  the  Englishman’s 
formalised  passion,  and  ask  to  be  let  alone. 

‘  He’s  not  for  ever  at  the  sonnets,’  she  said  ;  ‘we  discourse 
of  England  between  bouts ;  and  it  may  be  I  shall  learn 
something  worth  a  rhyme  or  two.’ 

They  played  piquet,  the  new  game,  together,  and  each 
used  it  as  a  vantage-ground.  He  could  not  keep  his 
desires,  nor  she  her  curiosity,  out  of  the  hands. 

‘Is  four  cards  good?’  he  would  ask  her;  and  when  she 
looked  (or  he  thought  she  looked)  quizzingly  at  his  frosted 
hair  :  ‘Is  one-and-forty  good  ?  ’ 

Then  she  must  laugh  and  shake  her  head :  ‘  One-and- 
forty’s  too  many  for  me,  sir.’ 

‘  I’ve  a  terce  to  my  Queen,  mistress.’ 

But  she  crowed  over  that.  ‘And  I’ve  a  quint  to  a 

146 


CH.  XI 


PROTHALAMIUM 


M7 


knave,  Mr.  Randolph ;  and  three  kings  I  have  in  my 
hand !  ’ 

She  found  out  that  they  were  not  best  pleased  in  England 
at  the  turn  of  affairs  in  Fife. 

‘  My  Queen,  Mistress  Beaton,’  said  the  enamoured 
Randolph,  ‘  cannot  view  with  comfort  the  unqueening  of 
a  sister.  Nay,  but  it  is  so.  Your  mistress  courts  the 
young  lord  with  too  open  a  face.  To  sit  like  one  forsworn 
when  he  is  away  ;  or  when  he  is  present,  to  crouch  at  his 
feet!  To  beg  his  gauntlet  for  a  plaything  —  to  fondle  his 
hunters  whip  !  To  be  meek,  to  cast  down  the  eyes;  to 
falter  and  breathe  low,  “  At  your  will,  my  lord  ”  !  Thus 
does  not  my  Queen  go  to  work.’ 

Mary  Beaton  looked  wise.  ‘Sir  James  Melvill  hath 
reported  her  manner  of  working,  sir.  We  are  well 
advertised  how  she  disports.’ 

‘  I  take  your  leave  to  say,’  replied  the  ambassador,  ‘  her 
plan  is  at  once  more  queenly  and  more  satisfying.  For 
why  ?  She  charges  men  upon  their  obedience  to  love  her. 
And  they  do  —  and  they  do  !  No,  no,  I  am  troubled:  I  own 
to  it.  If  you  find  me  backward,  sweet  Beaton,  you  shall 
not  be  harsh.  How  or  whence  I  am  to  get  temper  to  bear 
much  longer  with  this  toss-pot  boy,  I  know  not.  He  is 
the  subject  of  my  Queen  ;  he  is  —  I  say  it  stoutly  —  my  own 
subject  in  this  realm.  But  what  does  he  ?  How  comports 
himself  ?  “  Ha,  Randolph,  you  are  here  yet  ?  ”  This,  as  he 

parades  my  Lord  Ruthven  before  me,  with  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  my  faith  !  I  tell  you,  a  dangerous  friend  for  the 
young  man.  And  one  day  it  was  thus,  when  we  passed  in 
the  tennis-court.  “  Stay,  Randolph,  my  man  ”  —  his  man  ! 
“  I  had  something  for  your  ear  ;  but  it’s  gone.”  It’s  gone, 
saith  he !  Oh,  mistress,  this  is  unhappy  work.  He  doth 
not  use  the  like  at  Greenwich,  I  promise  you.’ 

‘  He  is  not  now  at  Greenwich,’  says  Beaton.  ‘  He  is 
come  back  to  his  own.’ 

Mr.  Randolph  jumped  about.  ‘  His  own  ?  Have  at 
you  on  that !  How  if  his  own  receive  him  not  ?  He  may 
prove  a  very  fish-bone  in  some  fine  throats  here.  Well, 
we  shall  see,  we  shall  see.  To-day  or  to-morrow  comes 
my  Lord  of  Moray  into  the  lists.  The  Black  Knight,  we 


148 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


may  call  him.  Then  let  the  Green  Knight  look  to  himself 
—  ho,  ho  !  We  shall  see  some  jousting  then.’ 

Mary  Beaton  shuffled  the  cards. 

These  j  oustings  occurred,  not  at  Callander,  where  Living¬ 
stone  had  been  wedded  to  her  Sempill  and  the  Queen  had 
danced  all  the  night  after,  but  at  Wemyss,  in  the  midst  of 
a  full  court,  kept  and  made  splendid  in  the  prince’s  honour. 
The  place  pleased  its  mistress  in  its  young  spring  dress, 
attuned  itself  with  her  thoughts  and  desires.  Blue,  white, 
and  green  was  all  this  world :  a  gentle,  April  sky ;  not 
far  off,  the  sea  ;  white  lambs  in  the  pastures,  and  the  trees 
in  the  forest  studded  with  golden  buds.  Wemyss  had  for 
her  an  air  of  France,  with  its  great  winged  house  of  stone, 
its  tourelles ,  balustrades,  ordered  avenues  raying  out  from 
the  terrace,  each  tapering  to  a  sunny  point ;  its  marble 
nymphs  and  sea-gods  with  shells ;  its  bowers,  and  the 
music  of  lutes  in  hidden  grass-walks,  not  too  loud  to  quell 
the  music  in  her  heart.  It  was  a  pity  that  the  prince  knew 
so  little  of  the  tongue,  or  it  had  been  pleasant  to  read  with 
him  — 

Filz  de  Venus,  voz  deux  yeux  despendez, 

Et  mes  ecrits  lisez  et  entendez, 

Pour  voir  comment 

D’un  desloyal  service  me  rendez  : 

Las,  punissez-le,  ou  bien  luy  commandez 
Vivre  autrement  — 

and  see  his  fine  blushes  over  the  words.  But  although 
he  had  never  heard  of  Maitre  Clement,  he  was  in  love 
without  him,  and  could  take  an  Englishman’s  reasonable 
pleasure  in  hearing  himself  called  ‘Venus’  boy,’  or  ‘  Rose- 
cheekt  Adonis.’ 

Certainly  he  must  have  been  in  love.  He  told  Antony 
Standen  so  every  night  over  their  cups ;  and  little  Forrest, 
a  pert  child  who  slept  (like  a  little  dog)  at  the  foot  of  his 
great  bed  —  he  knew  it  too  ;  for  it  had  thrust  a  new  duty 
upon  him  and  many  stripes.  All  the  Court  knew  that 
when  Forrest  had  red  eyes  the  prince  had  overslept 
himself. 

It  was  the  Queen’s  romantic  device  :  she  was  full  of 
them  at  this  time.  From  her  wing  of  the  house  you  could 


CH.  XI 


PROTHALAMIUM 


149 


see  the  prince’s ;  her  bedchamber  windows  gave  right 
across  the  grass-plat  to  his.  Now,  at  an  early  hour,  she 
—  who  woke  still  earlier,  and  lay  long,  thinking  —  stirred 
Mary  Fleming  from  her  side  by  biting  her  shoulder,  not 
hard.  Sleepy  Fleming,  when  she  had  learned  the  rules, 
slipped  out  of  bed  and  pulled  aside  the  curtains  to  let  in 
the  day ;  then  robed  the  Queen  in  a  bed-gown  of  blue, 
with  white  fur,  her  furred  slippers,  and  a  hood.  Armed 
thus  for  the  amorous  fray,  as  Mr.  Randolph  put  it —  at  any 
rate,  with  shining  eyes  and  auroral  hues,  Queen  Mary  went 
to  watch  at  the  window;  and  so  intent  did  she  stand  there, 
looking  out  over  the  wet  grass,  that  she  heeded  neither  the 
rooks  drifting  in  the  high  wind,  nor  the  guards  of  the  door 
who  were  spying  at  her,  nor  the  guard  by  the  privy- 
postern,  who  beckoned  to  his  fellow  to  come  out  of  the 
guard-house  and  witness  what  he  saw.  Not  only  was 
she  heedless,  but  she  would  have  been  indifferent  had  she 
heeded. 

After  a  time  of  motionless  attention,  this  always  occurred. 
She  raised  her  hand  with  a  handkerchief  in  it,  and  signalled 
once  —  then  twice  —  then  three  times  —  then  four  times. 
Then  she  dropped  her  hand  and  stood  stone-still  again  ; 
and  then  Fleming  came  to  take  her  away,  if  she  would  go. 
The  guards,  greatly  diverted,  were  some  time  before  they 
found  out  that  the  appearance  of  the  prince  at  his  window 
was  the  thing  signalised,  and  that  he  duly  answered  every 
dip  of  the  handkerchief.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  flag-language, 
planned  by  the  Queen  soon  after  she  came  to  Wemyss. 
One  meant,  ‘  Oh,  happy  day  !  ’  two,  1 1  am  well.  —  And 
you  ?  ’  three ,  ‘  I  love  you  ’ ;  four ,  ‘  I  would  kiss  you  if  I 
were  near  ’  ;  and  five ,  which  was  a  later  addition,  and  not 
always  given,  ‘I  am  kissing  you  in  my  heart.’  To  this 
one  was  generally  added  a  gesture  of  the  knuckles  to  the 
lips.  Now,  it  was  the  business  of  young  Forrest  to 
awaken  his  lord  in  time  for  this  ceremony  :  obviously,  her 
Majesty  could  not  be  left  to  a  solitary  vigil  for  long.  The 
prince  was  a  heavy  sleeper,  to  bed  late,  and  lamentably 
unsober.  Forrest,  then,  must  needs  suffer ;  for  my  lord 
was  furious  when  disturbed  in  his  morning  sleep.  But  the 
lad  found  that  he  suffered  more  when,  by  a  dire  mischance, 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


150 


one  day  he  did  not  wake  him  at  all.  For  that  he  was 
beaten  with  a  great  stick;  nor  is  it  wonderful.  There 
had  been  wild  work  in  the  corridors  the  morn  :  maids  half- 
dressed  with  messages  for  men  half-tipsy ;  and  the  Queen 
in  her  chamber,  sobbing  in  Mary  Fleming’s  arms. 

I  think  that  the  young  man  is  to  be  excused  for  believ¬ 
ing  himself  overweeningly  loved.  I  think  he  was  at  first 
flattered  by  the  attention,  and  believed  that  he  returned 
ardour  for  ardour.  But  either  he  was  cold  by  nature,  or  (as 
the  Italian  held)  assotted  of  himself  :  there  is  little  doubt  but 
he  soon  tired  of  the  lovers’  food.  Clearer  facts  are  these : 
that  he  was  not  touched  by  the  Queen’s  generous  surrender, 
and  did  not  see  that  it  was  generous.  ‘  You  may  say,  if  you 
choose,’  writes  he  of  Le  Secret  des  Secrets ,  ‘  that  a  vain  man 
is  a  gross  feeder,  to  whom  flattery  is  but  a  snack ;  but  the 
old  half-truth  takes  me  nearer,  which  says  that  every  man 
is  dog  or  cat.  If  you  stroke  your  dog,  he  adores  the  stoop¬ 
ing  godhead  in  you.  The  cat  sees  you  a  fool  for  your 
pains.  So  for  every  testimony  of  the  submiss  heart  given 
him  by  my  lady,  my  lord  added  one  cubit  to  his  stature.  I 
myself,  Jean-Marie  Des-Essars,  heard  him  speak  of  her  to 
my  Lord  Ruthven,  and  other  friends  of  his,  as  “  the  fond 
Queen.”  Encouraged  by  their  applause,  he  was  tardy  to 
respond.  He  danced  with  her  at  her  desire,  and  might  not, 
of  course,  ask  her  in  return  :  that  is,  by  strict  custom.  But 
my  mistress  was  no  stickler  for  Court  rules ;  and  if  he  had 
asked  her  I  know  she  would  have  been  moved.  However, 
he  never  did.  He  danced  with  Mary  Seton  when  he 
could ;  and  as  for  Madame  de  Sempill,  when  she  returned 
after  her  marriage,  if  ever  a  young  lord  was  at  the  mercy 
of  a  young  woman,  that  was  his  case.  Handsome,  black- 
eyed  lady !  his  knees  were  running  water  before  her ;  but 
she  chose  not  to  look  at  him.  Failing  her,  therefore,  he 
sought  lower  for  his  pleasures ;  how  much  lower,  it  is  not 
convenient  to  declare.’ 

Mary  Sempill  resumed  her  duties  in  mid-April,  having 
been  wedded  at  the  end  of  March,  and  came  to  Wemyss 
but  a  few  days  in  advance  of  two  great  men  —  my  Lord  of 
Moray,  to  wit,  the  Queen’s  base-brother,  and  my  Lord  of 
Morton,  Chancellor  and  cousin  of  the  prince.  Before  she 


CH.  XI 


PROTHALAMIUM 


151 


saw  her  mistress,  she  was  put  into  the  state  of  affairs  by 
Mary  Seton. 

‘  Ma  mye?  said  that  shrewd  little  beauty  to  her  comrade, 
‘  in  a  good  hour  you  come  back,  but  a  week  syne  had  been 
a  better.  She  is  fond,  fond,  fond !  She  is  all  melted  with 
love  —  just  a  phial  of  sweet  liquor  for  his  broth.  I  blame 
Fleming  ;  I’ve  been  at  her  night  and  morning  —  but  a  fine 
work !  The  lass  is  as  bad  as  the  Queen,  being  handmaid 
to  her  withered  Lethington,  so  much  clay  for  that  dry¬ 
fingered  potter.  But  our  mistress  —  oh,  she  goes  too  fast ! 
She  is  eating  love  up  :  there’ll  be  satiety,  you  shall  see. 
Our  young  princekin  is  so  set  up  that  he’ll  lie  back  in  his 
chair  and  whistle  for  her  before  long — you’ll  see,  you’ll 
see !  If  he  were  to  whistle  to-day  she’d  come  running  like 
a  spaniel  dog,  holding  out  her  hands  to  him,  saying,  “  Dear 
my  heart,  pity  me,  not  blame,  that  I  am  so  slow !  ”  Oh, 
Livingstone,  I  am  sore  to  see  it !  So  high  a  head,  lowered 
to  this  flushing  loon  !  Presumptuous,  glorious  boy  !  Now, 
do  you  hear  this.  He  raised  his  hand  against  Ruthven  the 
other  Tuesday,  a  loose  glove  in  it,  to  flack  him  on  the 
mouth.  And  so  he  handles  all  alike.  ’Twas  at  the  butts 
they  had  words  :  there  was  our  lady  and  Lindsay  shot 
against  Beaton  and  him.  Lindsay  scored  the  main  —  every 
man  knew  it ;  but  the  other  makes  an  outcry,  red  in  the 
face,  puffed  like  a  cock-sparrow.  Ruthven  stands  by  scowl¬ 
ing,  chattering  to  himself,  “The  Queen’s  main,  the  Queen’s 
main.”  “You  lie,  Ruthven,”  says  the  Young  Fool  (so  we 
all  call  him);  and  Ruthven,  “  That’s  an  ill  word,  my  Lord 
Darnley.”  “You  make  it  a  worse  when  you  say  it  in  my 

face,”  cries  he ;  “  and  I  have  a  mind - ”  He  has  his  glove 

in  his  hand,  swinging.  “  Have  you  a  mind  indeed  ?  ”  says 
black  Ruthven ;  “  ’tis  the  first  time  I  have  heard  it.” 
Lindsay  was  listening,  but  not  caring  to  look.  I  was  by 
Beaton  —  you  never  saw  Lethington  so  scared:  his  eyebrows 
in  his  hair  !  But  we  were  all  affrighted,  save  one :  ’twas 
the  Queen  stepped  lightly  between  them.  “  Dear  cousin,” 
she  says,  “  we  two  will  shoot  a  main,  and  win  it.”  And  to 
Ruthven,  “  My  Lord  Ruthven,”  says  she,  “  you  have  done 
too  much  for  me  to  call  down  a  cloud  on  this  my  spring¬ 
time.”  He  melted,  the  bitten  man,  he  melted,  and  bent 


152 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


over  her  hand.  My  young  gentleman  shot  with  her  and 
lost  her  the  match  —  in  such  a  rage  that  he  had  not  a  word 
to  say.  Now  I  must  tell  you  .  .  .’ ;  and  then  she  gave 
the  history  of  the  love-signals  at  the  window. 

Mary  Sempill  listened  with  sombre  cheer.  ‘  I  see  that 
it’s  done.  The  bird’s  in  the  net.  Jesu  Christ,  why  was  I 
not  here  —  or  Thyself  ?  ’ 

She  did  what  she  could  that  very  night :  divorced  the 
Master  of  Sempill  and  shared  her  mistress’s  chamber.  In 
the  morning  there  was  a  great  to-do  —  a  love-sick  lady 
coaxing  her  Livingstone,  stroking  her  cheeks ;  but  no  flag- 
work  could  be  allowed. 

‘  No,  no,  my  bonny  queen,  that  is  no  sport  for  thee. 
That  is  a  wench’s  trick.’ 

The  truth  was  not  to  be  denied ;  yet  not  Dido  on  her 
pyre  anguished  more  sharply  than  this  burning  queen. 
And  little  good  was  done,  more’s  the  pity  :  measures  had 
been  taken  too  late.  For  she  made  humble  access  to  her 
prince  afterwards  and  sued  out  a  forgiveness,  which  to 
have  got  easily  would  have  distressed  her.  You  may 
compare  wenches  and  queens  as  much  as  you  will  —  it’s 
not  a  surface  affair  :  but  the  fact  is,  the  heavier  a  crown 
weighs  upon  a  girl  in  love,  the  more  thankfully  will  she 
cast  it  to  ground.  Are  you  to  be  reminded  that  Queen 
Mary  was  not  the  first  generous  lover  in  history  ?  There 
was  Queen  Venus  before  her. 

My  Lord  of  Moray,  most  respectable  of  men,  rode 
orderly  from  Edinburgh  to  Wemyss,  with  a  train  of  some 
thirty  persons,  six  of  whom  were  ministers  of  the  Word. 
He  had  not  asked  Mr.  Knox  to  come  along  with  him,  for 
the  reason  that  the  uncompromising  prophet  had  lately 
married  a  cousin  of  the  Queen’s,  a  Stuart  and  very  young 
girl  —  fifteen  years  old,  they  say.  Whether  this  was  done, 
as  the  light-minded  averred,  out  of  pique  that  her  Majesty 
would  not  be  kind  to  him,  or  on  some  motion  even  less 
agreeable  to  imagine  —  my  Lord  of  Moray  was  hurt  at  the 
levity  of  the  deed,  and  suspected  that  the  Queen  would  be 
more  than  hurt.  But  I  believe  that  she  knew  Mr.  Knox 
better  than  her  base-brother  did.  However,  failing  Mr. 


CH.  XI 


PROTHALAMIUM 


153 


Knox,  he  had  six  divines  behind  him,  men  of  great 
acceptance.  The  Earl  of  Morton  was  waiting  for  him  at 
Burntisland :  side  by  side  the  two  weighty  lords  traversed 
the  woods  of  Fife.  It  might  have  been  astonishing  how 
little  they  had  to  say  to  each  other. 

‘  Likely  we  shall  have  wet  before  morn.’ 

‘  Ay,  belike,’  said  the  Earl  of  Moray. 

‘  These  lands  will  be  none  the  worse  of  it.’ 

‘  So  I  believe.’ 

‘  There  was  a  French  pink  in  the  basin.  Did  your 
lordship  see  her  ?  ’ 

‘  Ay,  I  saw  her.’ 

‘  Ha  !  And  they  say  there  shall  come  a  new  ambassador 
from  the  Pope.’ 

4  Is  that  so  ?  ’ 

‘  By  way  of  France,  he  must  travel.’ 

‘Ay?’ 

‘  Bothwell  will  be  in  France  the  now,  I  doubt.’ 

‘I’m  thinking  so,  my  lord,  indeed,’  says  the  Earl  of 
Moray. 

There  was  more,  but  not  much  more.  A  man  tires  of 
picking  at  granite  with  a  needle. 

They  reached  Wemyss  before  nightfall ;  but  already 
torches  were  flaming  here  and  there,  and  men  running 
made  smoky  comets  of  them,  low-flying  over  the  park. 
The  Queen  was  at  supper  in  her  closet;  there  would  be 
no  dancing  to-night,  because  her  Majesty  was  tired  with 
hunting.  ‘  No  doubt,’  said  Lethington,  ‘  my  Lord  of 
Moray  would  be  received.’  Chambers  were  prepared  for 
both  their  lordships.  Mr.  Archibald  Douglas  would  have 
charge  of  his  noble  kinsman’s  comfort,  while  by  the 
Queen’s  desire  he,  Lethington,  would  wait  upon  my  lord. 
Bowing,  and  quickly  turning  about,  the  Secretary  bent  his 
learned  head  as  he  announced  these  news. 

Something,  one  knows  not  what,  had  invited  urbanity 
into  the  dark  Earl  of  Moray.  He  was  all  for  abnegation 
in  favour  of  the  Chancellor. 

‘  See,  Mr.  Secretar,’  he  said,  ‘  see  to  the  Chancellor’s 
bestowing,  I  beg  of  you.  Lead  my  lord  the  Chancellor  to 
his  lodging ;  trust  me  to  myself  the  while.  My  lord  will 


154 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


be  weary  from  his  journey  —  nay,  my  good  lord,  but  I  know 
what  a  long  road  must  bring  upon  a  charged  statesman : 
grievous  burden  indeed !  Pray,  Mr.  Secretar,  my  lord 
the  Chancellor !  ’  and  the  like. 

‘Now,  the  devil  fly  away  with  black  Jamie  if  I  can 
bottom  him/  muttered  the  Chancellor  to  himself  as  —  burly 
man  —  he  stamped  up  the  house.  Mr.  Archie  Douglas,  his 
kinsman,  at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  bowed  his  grey  head 
till  his  nose  was  pointing  between  his  knees. 

‘  Man,  Archie,  ye’ll  split  yoursel’,’  says  the  Chancellor. 
‘You  may  leave  me,  Mr.  Secretar,  to  my  wicked  cousin,’ 
says  he. 

Lethington  sped  back  to  his  master,  and  found  him 
still  obstinately  gracious. 

‘  Hurry  not,  Mr.  Secretar,  hurry  not  for  me !’ 

‘  Nay,  my  good  lord,  but  my  devotion  is  a  jealous  god.’ 

The  Earl  waved  his  hand  about.  ‘  Ill  work  to  pervert 
the  Scriptures  and  serve  a  quip,’  he  said  ruefully,  —  ‘  but 
in  this  house  !  ’ 

Mr.  Secretary,  knowing  his  Earl  of  Moray,  said  no 
more,  but  led  him  in  silence  to  the  chambers,  and  silently 
served  him  —  that  is,  he  stood  by,  alert  and  watchful,  while 
his  people  served  him.  The  Earl’s  condescension  increased; 
he  was  determined  to  please  and  be  pleased.  He  talked 
freely  of  Edinburgh,  of  the  Assembly,  of  Mr.  Knox’s 
unhappy  backsliding  and  of  Mr.  Wood’s  stirring  reminders. 
Incidents  of  travel,  too :  he  was  concerned  for  some  poor 
foreign-looking  thief  whom  he  had  seen  on  the  gibbet  at 
Aberdour. 

‘Justice,  Mr.  Secretar,  Justice  wears  a  woful  face  on  a 
blithe  spring  morning.  And  you  may  well  think,  as  I  did, 
that  upon  yonder  twisting  wretch  had  once  dropped  the 
waters  of  baptism.  Man,  there  had  been  a  hoping  soul  in 
him  once  !  Sad  work  on  the  bonny  braeside  ;  woful  work 
in  the  realm  of  a  glad  young  queen !  ’ 

‘  Woful  indeed,  my  lord,’  said  Mr.  Secretary,  ‘  and  woe 
would  she  be  to  hear  of  it.  But  in  these  days  —  in  these 
days  especially  —  we  keep  such  miserable  knowledge  from 
her.  She  strays,  my  lord,  at  this  present,  in  a  garden  of 
enchantment.’ 


CH.  XI 


PROTHALAMIUM 


155 


‘And  you  do  well,  Mr.  Secretar,  you  do  well  —  if  the 
Queen  my  sister  does  well.  There  is  the  hinge  of  the 
argument.  What  says  my  young  friend  Mr.  Bonnar 
to  that  ? ’ 

Mr.  Bonnar,  my  lord’s  chaplain,  a  lean,  solemn  young 
man,  was  not  immediately  ready.  The  Earl  replied  for 
him. 

‘  Mr.  Bonnar  will  allow  for  the  season,  and  Mr.  Bonnar 
will  be  wise.  What  saith  the  old  poet  ?  — 

Ac  neque  jam  stabulis  gaudet  pecus,  aut  aratror  igni : 

Nec  prata  canis  albicant  pruinis - 

Eh,  man,  how  does  he  pursue  ?  Eh,  Mr.  Bonnar,  what 
saith  he  next? 

Jam  Cytherea  choros  ducit  Venus,  imminente  luna!’ 

‘The  moon  is  overhead,  indeed,  my  lord,’  says  the 
Secretary,  ‘  and  her  glamour  all  about  us.’ 

But  his  master  jumped  away,  and  was  soon  sighing. 

‘There  is  always  a  grain  of  sadmess  in  the  cup  for  us 
elders,  Mr.  Secretar ;  amari  aliquid ,  alas  !  But  I  am 
served.’  He  was  supping  in  his  room.  ‘  Master  Bonnar 
will  call  down  a  blessing  from  on  high.’  Master  Bonnar 
was  now  ready. 

The  game  went  on  through  the  meal.  Lethington 
seemed  to  be  standing  on  razors,  the  Earl  not  disapproving. 
The  great  man  ate  sparingly,  and  drank  cold  water;  but 
his  talk  was  incessant  —  of  nothing  at  all  —  ever  skirting 
realities,  leading  his  hearers  on,  then  skipping  away.  Not 
until  the  table  was  cleared  and  young  Mr.  Bonnar  released, 
from  his  blinking  duties  was  the  Secretary  also  delivered 
from  torments.  The  scene  shifted,  the  Earl  suddenly 
chilled,  and  Lethington  knew  his  ground.  They  got  to 
work  over  letters  from  England,  a  new  tone  in  which  had 
troubled  the  Secretary’s  dreams.  He  expounded  them  — 
some  being  in  cypher  —  then  summed  up  his  difficulties. 

‘  It  stands  thus,  my  lord,  as  I  take  it.  Here  came  over 
to  us  this  young  prince  from  England,  with  a  free  hand. 
We  took  what  seemed  fairly  proffered ;  and  why  indeed 


i56 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  1 


should  we  be  backward  ?  We  were  as  free  to  take  him 
as  her  English  Majesty  was  free  to  send  him.  Oh,  there 
have  been  freedoms !  I  will  not  say  we  could  have  done 
no  better,  in  all  ways.  No  matter!  We  opened  our  arms 
to  what  came,  as  we  thought,  sped  lovingly  towards  us. 
Mr.  Randolph  himself  could  not  deny  that  we  had  reason ; 
and  I  shall  make  bold  to  say  that  never  did  lady  show 
such  kindness  to  a  match,  not  of  her  own  providing,  as 
our  mistress  showed  to  this.  But  now,  my  lord,  now, 
when  the  sun  hath  swelled  the  buds,  there  is  a  change  in 
the  wind  from  England  —  a  nip,  a  hint  of  malice.  These 
letters  exhibit  it,  to  my  sense.  I  think  Mr.  Randolph 
may  be  recalled  :  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  do  think  it.  I  know 
that  he  desires  it ;  I  know  that  he  suffers  discomfort,  that 
he  does  not  see  his  way.  “  Is  this  young  man  our  subject 
or  yours  ?  ”  he  asketh.  “  Is  he  subject  at  all,  or  Regent 
rather?  And  if  Regent,  whom  is  he  to  rule?”  No,  my 
lord,  Mr.  Randolph,  whether  instructed  or  not,  is  itching 
to  be  off.  And  that  is  pity,  because  he  is  bond-slave 
of  the  Beaton,  and  would  lavish  all  his  counsel  at  her 
feet  if  she  desired  him.  Briefly,  my  lord,  I  jalouse  the 
despatch  of  Throckmorton  to  our  Court,  not  upon  a 
friendly  mission.’ 

The  Earl  listened,  but  moved  not  a  muscle.  He  looked 
like  an  image  of  old  wax,  when  the  pigment  is  all  faded 
out,  and  the  wan  smooth  stuff  presents  no  lines  to  be  read. 

‘You  are  right,’  he  said  presently:  ‘Mr.  Throck¬ 
morton  comes,  but  Mr.  Randolph  remains.  The  Queen 
of  England - ’  He  stopped. 

‘  She  is  against  us,  my  lord  ?  She  grudges  us  the  heir 
of  both  crowns  !  ’ 

‘  I  say  not.  She  thinks  him  unworthy :  but  I  must  not 
believe  it,  nor  must  you.  Mr.  Secretar,  you  shall  go  to 
England.  Presently — presently — we  must  be  very  patient. 
Now  of  my  sister,  how  doth  she?’ 

‘The  Queen  dotes,  my  lord,’  said  Lethington,  and 
angered  the  Earl,  it  seemed. 

‘  Shame,  sir  !  Shame,  Mr.  Secretar  !  Fie  !  Queens  must 
not  dote.’ 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  relation  between  this  pair 


CH.  XI 


PROTHALAMIUM 


157 


that  the  master  was  always  leading  the  man  into  admissions 
and  professing  to  be  cut  to  the  soul  by  them.  But  Mr. 
Secretary  had  the  habit  of  allowing  for  it.  ‘  I  withdraw 
the  word,  my  lord.  Maybe  I  know  nothing.  Who  am  I, 
when  all’s  said,  to  judge  ?  ’ 

The  Earl  lowered  his  eyelids  until  they  fluttered  over 
his  eyes  like  two  white  moths.  ‘  How  stand  you  with  the 
Fleming,  Lethington  ?  How  stand  you  there  ?  Can  she 
make  no  judge  of  you  ?  ’ 

It  was  the  stroke  too  much.  The  stricken  creature 
flinched ;  and  then  something  real  came  out  of  him.  ‘  Ah, 
my  good  lord,’  he  said,  with  dignity  in  arms  for  his  secret 
honour,  ‘you  shall  please  to  consider  me  there  as  the  suitor 
of  an  honest  lady,  and  very  sensible  of  the  privilege.’ 

Lord  Moray  opened  his  eyes,  stood  up  and  held  out  his 
hands.  ‘I  ask  your  pardon,  Mr.  Secretar — freely  I  ask 
it  of  you.  Come  —  enough  of  weary  business.  Crave  an 
audience  for  me.  I  will  go  to  the  Queen.’ 

Mr.  Secretary  kissed  his  patron’s  hand.  ‘  My  prince 
shall  forgive  his  servant - ’ 

‘  Oh,  man,  say  no  more !  ’ 

‘ - and  accept  his  humble  duty.  I  will  carry  your 

lordship  to  the  Queen.  Will  you  first  see  the  Italian  ?  ’ 

Quickly  his  lordship  changed  his  face.  ‘Why  should 
I  see  the  Italian  ?  What  have  I  to  do  with  him  ?  Mr. 
Secretar,  Mr.  Secretar,  let  every  man  do  cheerfully  his 
own  office,  so  shall  the  state  thrive.’ 

He  had  the  air  of  quoting  Scripture. 

The  Queen  saw  her  brother  for  a  few  moments,  and  he 
in  her  what  he  desired  to  be  sure  of :  eyes  like  dancing 
water,  and  about  her  a  glow  such  as  the  sun  casts  early  on 
a  dewy  glade.  He  had  never  known  her  so  gentle,  or  so 
without  wit ;  nor  had  she  ever  before  kissed  him  of  her 
own  accord.  Lady  Argyll,  his  own  sister,  was  with  her, 
the  swarthy,  handsome,  large  woman. 

‘You  are  welcome,  brother  James,’  Queen  Mary  said; 
‘and  now  we’ll  all  be  happy  together.’ 

‘  I  shall  believe  it,  having  it  from  your  Majesty’s  lips,’ 
said  he. 

She  touched  her  lips,  as  if  she  were  caressing  what  had 


BK.  I 


158  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

been  blessed  to  her.  ‘  I  think  my  lips  will  never  dare  be 
false.’ 

He  said  warmly,  ‘  There  speaketh  a  queen  in  her  own 
right !  ’  What  need  had  he  to  see  the  Italian  ? 

Now,  for  the  sake  of  contrast,  look  for  one  moment 
upon  that  other  great  man,  the  Chancellor  Morton,  in  his 
privacy.  Booted  and  spurred,  he  plumped  himself  down 
in  a  chair,  clapped  his  big  hands  to  his  thighs  and  stuck 
out  his  elbows.  He  stared  up  open-mouthed  at  his  kins¬ 
man  Archie,  twinkling  his  eyes,  all  prepared  to  guffaw. 
Humour  was  working  through  the  heavy  face.  ‘  Well, 
man  ?  Well,  man  ?  How  is  it  with  Cousin  Adonis  ?  ’ 

Archie  Douglas,  scared  at  first,  peered  about  him  into 
all  corners  of  the  room  before  he  could  meet  the  naughty 
eyes.  Catching  them  at  last  expectant,  he  made  a  grimace 
and  flipped  finger  and  thumb  in  the  air.  ‘  Adonis  !  Hoots  ! 
a  prancing  pie  !  ’ 

The  Earl  of  Morton  rubbed  his  hands  together.  *  Plenty 
of  rope,  man,  Archie !  Plenty  of  rope  for  the  likes  of 
him!’ 


Des-Essars  has  a  long  piece  concerning  the  official  pre¬ 
sentation  of  the  two  earls  to  the  prince,  which  seems  to 
have  been  done  with  as  much  state  as  the  Scottish  Court 
could  achieve. 

‘  My  Lord  of  Darnley’s  mistake,’  he  says,  ‘  was  to  be 
stiff  with  the  wrong  man.  He  was  civil  to  the  Chancellor, 
his  cousin  —  where  a  certain  insolence  would  have  been 
salutary;  he  made  him  a  French  bow,  and  gave  him  his 
hand  afterwards,  English  fashion.  But  to  my  Lord  of 
Moray,  a  cruelly  proud  man,  he  chose  to  show  the  true 
blood’s  consciousness  of  the  base  ;  and  in  so  doing,  the  hurt 
he  may  have  inflicted  at  the  moment  was  as  nothing  to 
what  he  laid  up  for  himself.  It  was  late  in  the  day  to 

insist  upon  the  Lord  James’s  bastardy.  Yet -  “|Ah,  my 

Lord  of  Moray !  Servant  of  your  lordship,  I  protest.” 
And  then:  “  Standen,  my  gloves.  I  have  the  headache.” 
He  used  scented  gloves  as  a  febrifuge.  “  A  prancing  pie  !  ” 
said  Monsieur  de  Douglas  in  my  hearing.  Nevertheless, 
my  Lord  of  Moray  spoke  his  oration  ;  very  fine,  but  marred 


CH.  XI 


PROTHALAMIUM 


159 


by  a  too  level,  monotonous  delivery  —  a  blank  wall  of  sound 
—  to  which,  for  all  that,  one  must  needs  listen.  He  was 
not  a  personable  man;  for  his  jaw  was  too  spare  and  his 
mouth  too  tight.  PI  is  flat  brows,  also,  had  that  air  of  strain 
which  makes  intercourse  uncomfortable.  But  he  was  a 
great  man,  and  a  deliberate  man,  and  the  most  patient  man 
I  ever  knew  or  heard  of,  except  Job  the  Patriarch.  So  he 
spoke  his  oration,  and  left  everybody  as  wise  as  they  were 
before.’ 

I  myself  suspect  that  the  good  Lord  James  was  gaining 
time  to  look  round  and  consider  what  he  should  do.  And 
although  he  had  scouted  the  notion  that  he  could  have 
anything  to  say  to  the  Italian,  the  fact  is  noteworthy  that 
to  seek  him  out  privately  was  one  of  the  first  things  he  did 
with  his  time.  Signior  David  told  him  frankly  two  things  : 
first,  that  if  the  Queen  did  not  marry  her  prince  soon  she 
would  come  to  loathing  the  sight  of  him  ;  secondly,  he  said 
that  if  she  did  marry  him  the  lords  would  get  him  murdered. 
‘  These  two  considerations,’  said  Davy  in  effect,  ‘  really  hang 
together.  The  lords,  your  lordship’s  colleagues,  are  not  in 
love  with  the  young  man,  and  so  are  quite  ready  to  be  at 
him.  But  she  at  present  is  so,  and  in  full  cry.  When  she 
slackens,  and  has  time  to  open  her  eyes  and  see  him  as  he 
is -  Hoo!  let  him  then  say  his  Co7ifiteor!  ’ 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  such  perilous  topics  were 
discussed  with  this  brevity  and  point  —  certainly  not  where 
the  Earl  of  Moray  was  one  of  the  discutants;  this,  how¬ 
ever,  is  the  sum,  confirmed  to  the  Earl  by  what  he  observed 
of  the  Court.  There  was  no  doubt  but  that  the  two  things 
did  indeed  hang  together. 

The  Queen,  his  sister,  as  he  saw  very  soon,  did  not  go 
half-heartedly  to  work  in  this  marriage  project.  And  the 
louder  grew  the  murmurs  of  Mr.  Randolph,  handing  on 
English  threats,  the  more  loyally  she  clung  —  not  to  her 
prince,  perhaps,  but  to  what  she  had  convinced  herself  her 
prince  was.  He  studied  that  young  man  minutely  upon 
every  occasion,  spent  smiles  and  civilities  upon  him,  received 
rebuffs  in  return,  and  (with  an  air  of  saying  ‘  I  like  your 
spirit’)  came  next  day  for  more.  He  saw  him  hector 
Signior  Davy,  tempt  Lord  Ruthven  to  rabies ,  run  after 


i6o 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


Mary  Sempill,  allow  the  Queen  to  run  after  him,  get  drunk. 
He  saw  him  ride  with  his  hounds,  break  in  a  colt,  thrash  a 
gentleman,  kiss  two  women,  lose  money  at  a  tennis  match, 
and  draw  his  dagger  on  the  Master  of  Lindsay  who  had 
won  it.  A  very  little  conversation  with  the  Court  circle, 
and  two  words  with  his  sister  of  Argyll,  sufficed  him. 

‘Ill  blood,’  said  that  stern  lady.  ‘The  little  bloat  frog 
will  swell  till  he  burst  unless  we  prick  him  beforehand. 
Not  all  Scots  lords  have  your  fortitude,  brother  James.’ 

‘  Hush,  sister,  hush  !  I  think  better  of  poor  Scotland 
than  you  do.  Who  are  we  —  unhappy  pensioners  —  to 
judge  her  Majesty’s  choice  ?’ 

He  walked  away,  being  a  most  respectable  man,  lest  his 
fierce  sister  should  lead  him  farther  than  it  was  convenient 
to  go  ;  and  after  a  week’s  reflection  sent  Mr.  Secretary 
Lethington  into  England,  with  sealed  letters  for  Mr.  Cecil 
and  open  letters  for  the  Queen.  In  these  he  echoed  English 
sentiments,  that  the  marriage  was  deplorable  from  every 
view,  to  be  opposed  by  every  lover  of  peace  and  true  reli¬ 
gion.  He  should  do  what  could  be  done  to  serve  her 
English  Majesty,  being  convinced  that  no  better  way  of 
serving  his  own  Queen  was  open  to  him.  The  bearer  was 
in  possession  of  his  full  mind ;  the  Lord  of  Lethington 
would  convince  his  friends  by  lively  testimonies,  etc.  etc. 
This  done,  even  then  (so  slow-dealing  was  he)  he  took 
another  week  to  deliberate  before  he  selected  his  plan  of 
action  and  his  hour.  He  could  afford  so  much  time,  but 
not  much  more. 

It  was  an  hour  of  a  night  when  there  was  dancing  and 
mumchance :  torches,  musicians  in  the  gallery,  a  mask  of 
satyrs,  an  ode  of  Mr.  Buchanan’s  declaimed,  and  some 
French  singing,  in  which  Des-Essars  eclipsed  his  former 
self  and  won  the  spleen  of  Adam  Gordon.  For  if  her 
Majesty  had  sent  Adam  into  the  Lothians  and  rewarded 
him  for  it  with  a  pat  of  the  cheek,  now  she  called  the  other 
up  to  the  dai's,  publicly  kissed  him,  and  gave  him  a  little 
purse  worked  in  roses  by  herself.  There  were  broad  pieces 
in  it  too. 

‘  I  shall  pay  you  for  that,  Baptist  my  man ;  see  you  to 
it,’  says  Adam. 


CH.  XI 


PROTHALAMIUM 


161 


But  Jean-Marie  flourished  his  purse  before  he  put  it  into 
his  bosom  and  hooked  his  doublet  upon  it.  ‘  Draw  upon 
me,  Monsieur  de  Gordon,  and  let  it  be  for  blood  if  you 
choose.  I  can  well  afford  it.’ 

P'or  the  first  time  since  her  entry  into  Scotland  the  Queen 
wore  colours.  She  appeared  in  a  broad-skirted,  much- 
quilted,  tagged  and  spangled  gown  of  yellow  satin ;  netted 
over  with  lace-work  done  in  pearls.  The  bodice  was  long 
and  pointed,  low  in  the  neck ;  but  a  ruff  edged  with  pearls 
ran  up  from  either  shoulder,  like  two  great  petals,  within 
which  her  neck  and  feathered  head  were  as  the  stamen  of 
the  flower.  It  did  not  suit  her  to  be  so  sumptuous,  because 
that  involved  stiffness;  and  she  was  too  slim  to  carry  the 
gear,  and  too  active,  too  supple  and  humoursome  to  be 
anything  but  miserable  in  it.  But  she  chose  to  shine  that 
night,  so  that  she  might  honour  her  prince  in  her  brother’s 
cold  eyes. 

After  supper,  when  there  was  general  dancing,  the  Earl 
of  Moray  surprised  everybody  by  walking  across  the  hall 
to  where  Lord  Darnley  stood.  A  dozen  or  more  heard  his 
exact  words :  ‘  Come,  my  lord,’  he  said,  ‘  I  am  spokesman 
for  us  all ;  and  here  is  my  humble  suit,  that  you  will  lead 
the  Queen  in  a  measure.  It  would  be  her  own  choice,  so 
you  cannot  deny  me.  Come,  I  will  lead  you  to  her  Majesty.’ 

He  spoke  more  loudly  but  ho  less  deliberately  than 
usual ;  there  was  quite  a  little  commotion.  Even  the 
young  prince  himself  knew  that  this  was  an  extraordinary 
civility.  One  may  add,  perhaps,  that  even  he  received  it 
graciously.  Bowing,  blushing  a  little,  he  said  :  ‘  My  lord, 
I  shall  always  serve  the  Queen’s  grace,  and,  I  hope,  content 
her.  I  take  it  thankfully  from  your  lordship  that  in  this 
yours  is  the  common  voice.’ 

The  Earl  took  him  by  the  hand  up  the  hall.  The  Queen 
had  starry  eyes  when  she  saw  them  coming. 

‘  Madam,’  said  her  half-brother,  ‘  here  I  bring  a  partner 
for  your  Majesty  whom  I  am  persuaded  you  will  not  refuse. 
If  you  think  him  more  backward  than  he  should  be  and 
myself  more  forward,  you  shall  reflect,  madam,  that  by 
these  means  my  zeal  is  enabled  to  join  hands  with  his 
modesty.’ 


162 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


4  We  thank  you,  brother/  replied  the  Queen,  in  a  voice 
scarcely  audible.  She  was  certainly  touched,  as  she  looked 
up  at  her  prince  with  quivering  lips.  But  he  laughed  a 
brave  answer  back,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  take  hers. 
The  musicians  in  the  gallery,  who  had  been  primed  before¬ 
hand,  struck  into  a  galliard. 

This  dance  is  really  a  formal  comedy,  what  we  call  a 
ballet,  with  grave,  high-handed  turns  to  left  and  right, 
curtseyings,  bowings,  retreats  and  pursuits.  It  quickens 
or  dies  according  to  the  air.  You  make  your  first  stately 
steps,  you  bow  and  separate ;  you  dance  apart,  upon  signal 
you  return.  The  theme  of  every  galliard  is  Difference  and 
Reconciliation.  It  is  a  Roman  thing,  and  has  five  airs  to 
it.  The  air  chosen  here  was,  ‘  Baisons-nous,  ma  belle / 

The  prince  was  a  stilted  dancer,  Queen  Mary  the  best 
of  her  day  —  the  exercise  was  a  passion  of  hers.  As  for 
him,  he  could  never  be  any  better,  for,  doubting  his  own 
dignity,  he  was  extremely  jealous  of  it.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  to  be  limber  would  be  to  exhibit  weakness.  The 
result  of  this  disparity  between  the  partners  was,  to  the 
spectators,  that  the  Queen  had  the  air  of  drawing  him  on, 
of  enticing  him,  of  inspiring  all  this  parade  of  tiffs  and 
sweet  accord.  It  was  she  who,  at  the  curtsey,  showed 
herself  saucy  and  maline — she  who,  like  a  rustic  beauty, 
glanced  and  shook  her  head,  hunched  her  white  shoulder 
and  tossed  his  presence  away.  So  it  was  she  who  came 
tripping  back,  held  off,  invited  pursuit,  suffered  capture, 
melted  suddenly  to  kindness.  He  regained  her  hand,  as  it 
appeared,  by  right  and  without  effort ;  she  let  it  rest,  they 
thought,  in  thankful  duty.  It  was  make-believe,  of  course ; 
but  she  lived  her  part,  and  he  did  not.  So  blockish  was 
he  that,  Mary  Seaton  said,  the  Queen  seemed  like  a  girl 
hanging  garlands  round  a  garden  god.  All  watched  and 
all  passed  judgment,  but  were  prejudiced  by  the  knowledge 
that,  as  she  danced,  so  she  would  choose  to  be.  In  the 
midst,  and  unperceived,  the  Earl  of  Moray  went  out  of  the 
hall,  and  sought  the  Italian  in  his  writing  cabinet. 

Signior  Davy  was  at  work  there  by  the  light  of  a  tallow 
candle.  His  hair  was  disordered,  his  bonnet  awry;  he 
had  unfastened  his  doublet,  and  his  shirt  had  overflowed 


CH.  XI 


PROTHALAMIUM 


163 

his  breeches.  He  wrote  fast,  but  like  an  artist,  with  his 
head  well  away  from  his  hand.  It  went  now  to  one  side, 
now  to  another,  as  he  estimated  the  shapes  of  his  thin 
lettering.  ‘  Eh  !  probiamo  !  Ma  si,  ma  si  —  cosi  va 
meglio.’  So  he  chattered  to  himself  at  his  happy 
craft. 

The  Earl  of  Moray  stepped  quietly  into  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him.  The  scribe  lifted  up  his  head 
without  ceasing  to  write.  ‘  Ah,  Monsieur  de  Moray ! 
Qu’il  soit  le  bienvenu  !  ’  He  finished  the  foliation  of  a 
word,  jumped  up,  snatched  at  his  patron’s  hand,  briskly 
kissed  it,  and  said,  ‘  Commandi !  ’ 

They  talked  in  French,  in  which  the  Earl  was  an  exact, 
if  formal,  practitioner.  There  was  no  fencing  between 
them.  My  lord  did  not  affect  to  be  shocked  at  hearing 
what  he  desired  to  know,  nor  the  Italian  to  mean  what  he 
did  not  say. 

‘  I  have  been  witness  of  great  doings  this  night,  Signior 
David.’ 

‘The  night  is  the  time  for  doings,  I  consider,’  replied 
the  Italian. 

This  general  reflection  the  Earl  passed  over  for  the 
moment.  ‘They  dance  the  galliard  in  hall  —  the  Queen 
and  the  Prince.  You  can  hear  the  rebecks  from  here.’ 

‘I  know  the  tune,  sir!’  cried  Davy.  ‘I  set  it.  I  scored 
it  for  her  long  ago.  It  is  Baisons-noiisy  ma  belle .  But 
they  murder  it  by  clinging  to  the  fall.  It  needs  passion 
if  it  is  to  breed  passion.  That  music  should  hurt  you.’ 

‘  Passion  is  not  wanting,  Signior  David,’  said  my  lord, 
with  narrowed,  ever  narrowing  eyes.  ‘  And  passion  is 
much.  But  opportunity  is  more.’ 

The  Italian  started.  ‘  You  think  it  is  a  good  hour  ?  ’ 

‘Judge  you  of  the  hour,’  said  the  Earl  of  Moray. 

The  Italian  frowned,  as  he  drummed  with  his  fingers  on 
the  table.  He  sang  a  little  air :  Belle ,  qui  tiens  ma  vie  ! 
My  lord  took  a  ring  from  his  finger  and  laid  it  down  :  a 
thin  ring  with  a  flat-cut  single  diamond  in  it,  of  great  size 
and  water.  Singing  still,  the  Italian  picked  it  up,  looked 
lazily  at  it.  He  embodied  his  criticism  in  his  song  —  ‘  Non 
c’£  male,  Signore  !  No-o-o-o-on  c’£-e  male  !  ’  All  at  once 


164 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  1 


he  clapped  it  down  upon  the  desk  and  jumped  round  — 
fire-fraught,  quivering,  a  changed  man. 

‘You  wish  your  opportunity  —  you  think  the  hour  is 
struck  !  You  observe  —  you  judge — you  make  your  plans 
— you  wait  —  you  watch — and  —  ah!  You  come  to  me  — 
you  say,  Passion  is  not  wanting,  but  opportunity  is  all. 
And  my  music  lends  it :  Baisons-nous ,  ma  belle ,  hey  ? 
Good,  sir!  good,  sir!  I  thank  you,  and  I  meet  you  half¬ 
way.  In  a  little  moment  —  ha !  here  is  the  moment. 
Listen.’  A  bell  in  the  tower  began  to  toll. 

‘  Midnight,  sir !  ’  cried  the  Italian,  leaping  about  and 
waving  his  arms.  ‘That  is  the  midnight  bell!’  He 
struck  a  great  pose  —  head  thrown  back,  one  hand  in  his 
breast.  ‘  Era  gid  /’  ora  che  volge  il  disio  !  Come,  come, 
my  lord,  we  will  put  the  point  to  the  pyramid.  Wait 
for  me.’ 

He  ran  out,  cloaking  head  and  shoulders  as  he  went ; 
the  Earl  awaited  him  massively.  In  a  little  while  he  was 
back  again,  cheerful,  almost  riotously  cheerful,  accom¬ 
panied  by  a  blue-chinned  young  man,  a  priest  of  the  old 
religion,  whose  eyes  looked  beady  with  fright  to  see  the 
grim  Protestant  lord. 

‘  No,  no,  my  reverend,  have  no  fears  at  all,’  said  the 
Italian ;  ‘  see  nobody,  hear  nothing ;  but  go  to  the  chapel 
and  vest  yourself  for  midnight  mass.  Quick,  my  dear, 
quick  !  —  off  with  you  !  ’ 

My  lord  had  contrived  to  freeze  himself  out  of  sight  or 
conscience  of  this  part  of  the  business.  It  was  droll  to  see 
how  abstractedly  he  looked  at  the  wall.  The  priest  had 
disappeared  before  the  Italian  touched  his  arm,  beckoning 
him  to  follow. 

They  descended  from  the  turret  upon  the  long  corridor 
which  connected  the  two  wings  of  the  house ;  they  went 
down  a  little  stair,  and  came  to  the  Queen’s  door,  which 
led  from  the  hall  to  her  own  side.  This  door  was  closed, 
but  not  locked.  Pushing  it  gently  open,  Signior  Davy 
saw  young  Gordon  looking  at  the  crowd  in  the  dusty  hall, 
his  elbows  on  his  knees.  The  hum  and  buzz  of  talk  came 
eddying  up  the  stair  —  little  cries,  manly  assurance,  pro¬ 
testations,  and  so  on.  ‘  Hist,  Monsieur  de  Gordon,  hist !  ’ 


PROTHALAMIUM 


CH.  XI 


Adam  looked  up,  Des-Essars  peeped  round  the  corner : 
those  two  were  never  far  apart. 

The  Italian  whispered,  ‘  I  must  have  a  word  with  the 
Queen  as  she  comes  up.  It  is  serious.  Warn  her  of  it.’ 
Adam  coloured  up ;  he  was  flustered.  It  was  Des-Essars 
who,  looking  sharply  at  the  incisive  man,  nodded  his  head. 
Signior  David  drew  back,  and  drew  his  companion  back. 
They  waited  at  the  head  of  the  stair  in  the  shadow,  listen¬ 
ing  to  the  rumours  of  the  hall. 

There  came  presently  a  lull  in  the  talk,  a  hushing- 
down;  some  sort  of  preparation,  expectancy;  they  heard 
the  Queen  say,  quite  clearly,  ‘To-morrow,  to-morrow  I  will 
consider  it.  I  cannot  hear  you  now.’  A  voice  pleaded, 

‘  Ah,  madam,  in  pity - !  ’  and  hers  again  :  ‘  No,  no,  no  ! 

Come,  ladies.’ 

‘  Room  there,  sirs  !  Give  room  there,  my  ladies  !  ’  cried 
the  usher.  Good-nights  followed,  laughing  and  confused 
speech,  shuffling  of  feet,  and  some  rustling  —  kissing  of 
hands,  no  doubt.  Then,  as  one  knows  what  one  cannot 
see,  they  felt  her  coming. 

Arthur  Erskine,  Captain  of  the  Guard,  marched  up  first, 
solemnly,  with  two  great  torches ;  Bastien  the  valet,  some 
more  servants.  Margaret  Carwood,  bedchamber-woman, 
appeared  at  the  stairhead.  Some  of  the  maids  of  honour 
passed  up  —  Mary  Beaton  and  a  young  French  girl,  hand- 
in-hand,  Mary  Sempill,  and  others.  Des-Essars  stepped 
from  his  place  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  was  no  more 
seen. 

He  was  the  next  to  reach  the  upper  floor:  Des-Essars 
himself,  white  and  tense.  ‘  She  will  speak  to  you  here,’  he 
told  the  Italian.  ‘Show  yourself  to  her.’ 

‘  Altro  !  ’  said  Davy.  Immediately  after,  they  heard  the 
Queen  coming. 

She  paused  on  the  landing  and  looked  about  her.  Then 
she  saw  the  Italian.  ‘You  wait  for  me,  David?  Go  in, 
mes  belles ,’  she  said  to  Fleming  and  Seton,  who  were  with 
her;  ‘and  you  too,  Carwood.  I  am  coming.’ 

They  left  her,  and  she  stood  alone,  waiting,  but  not 
beckoning.  She  looked  very  tired. 

The  Italian  approached  her  on  tiptoe,  and  began  to 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  1 


1 66 


talk.  He  talked  in  whispers,  with  his  hasty  voice,  with 
his  darting,  inspired  hands,  with  every  nerve  of  his  body. 
She  was  startled  at  first  —  but  he  flooded  her  with  words  : 
she  had  turned  her  face  quickly  towards  him,  with  an 
‘  Oh  !  Oh  !  ’  and  then  had  looked  as  if  she  would  run.  But 
he  held  out  his  imploring  hands;  he  talked  faster  and 
faster;  he  pointed  to  heaven,  extended  his  arms,  patted 
his  breast,  jerked  his  head,  sobbed,  dashed  away  real  tears. 
She  was  trembling ;  he  saw  her  trembling.  He  folded 
arms  over  breast,  flung  them  desperately  apart,  clasped  his 
hands,  seemed  to  be  praying.  Godlike  clemency  seemed 
to  sit  in  him  as  he  talked  on ;  he  looked  at  her  with  calm, 
pitying,  far-searching  eyes.  His  words  came  more  slowly, 
as  if  he  was  now  announcing  the  inevitable  sum  of  his 
frenzy.  She  considered,  hanging  her  head ;  but  when  he 
named  her  brother  she  started  violently,  could  not  control 
her  shaking-fit,  nor  bring  herself  to  look  into  the  shadow. 
The  Italian  beckoned  to  his  patron,  who  then  came  softly 
forward  out  of  the  dark. 

‘Dear  madam,  dear  sister - ’  he  began;  but  she 

stopped  him  by  a  look. 

‘  Brother,  are  you  leading  me?  ’ 

He  denied  it  with  an  oath. 

‘  Brother,’  she  said  again,  ‘  I  do  think  it.’ 

Then  he  changed,  saying :  ‘  Why,  then,  sister,  if  I  am,  it 
is  whither  your  heart  has  cried  to  go.’ 

‘  I  believe  that  is  the  very  truth,’  she  owned,  and  looked 
wistfully  into  his  face.  Signior  Davy  went  downstairs. 

She  pleaded  for  a  little  time.  She  had  not  confessed  for 
five  days  —  she  was  not  ready  —  there  should  be  more  form 
observed  in  the  mating  of  princes  —  what  was  the  English 
use?  In  France  —  but  this  was  not  France. 

He  admitted  everything.  And  yet,  he  said,  the  heart 
was  an  instant  lover,  happiest  in  simplicity.  A  prince  was 
a  prince  from  birth,  before  the  solemn  anointing.  So  a 
bride  might  be  a  wife  before  the  Queen  had  a  Consort. 

‘  True,’  she  said,  ‘  but  a  sovereign  should  consult  his 
subjects.’ 

‘  Ah,  sister,’  says  he,  ‘  what  woman  could  be  denied  her 
heart’s  choice  ?  ’ 


ch.  xi  PROTHALAMIUM  167 

She  hid  her  face.  ‘  God  knoweth,  God  knoweth  I  do 
well !  ’ 

‘  Why,  then,  courage  !  ’  said  he.  ‘  Content  your  God, 
madam,  and  follow  conscience.  It  lies  not  in  woman  born 
to  do  better.’ 

At  this  point  the  Italian  came  back,  leading  my  lord. 
The  prince  was  flushed,  as  always  at  night,  but  sober,  and 
undoubtedly  moved.  He  knelt  before  her  Majesty  un¬ 
affectedly,  bowing  his  head.  ‘Oh,  madam,  my  sover¬ 
eign - ’  he  began  to  say;  but  then  she  gave  a  little 

sharp  cry,  and  took  him  up.  Tenderly  she  looked  at  him, 
searching  his  face. 

‘  Oh,  I  am  here,  my  lord.  Do  you  seek  me  ?  ’ 

In  return,  after  a  moment’s  regard  of  her  beauty,  he 
choked  a  sob  in  his  breath,  shook  his  head  and  lifted  it. 

‘  Now  God  judge  me,  if  I  seek  thee  not,  my  Mary !  ’ 

‘  Come  then,’  said  the  Queen  —  yet  stood  timorously  still. 

The  Earl  of  Moray  stepped  forward  with  his  arms  up¬ 
lifted.  His  face  was  deadly  white,  but  his  eyes  were  flres. 

‘  Go  in  —  go  in - !  ’  he  said  with  fierce  breath,  and 

seemed  to  beat  them  before  him  into  the  open  doorway. 

When  he  had  his  royal  pair  safe  in  the  chapel,  the 
candles  lit  and  the  priest  at  his  secret  prayers  before  the 
altar 1  —  then,  and  not  before,  did  Signior  Davy  call  in 
the  maids,  Arthur  Erskine,  and  Des-Essars.  They  came 
trooping  in  together  —  nine,  of  them,  all  told  —  saw  the  lit 
altar,  the  priest  in  yellow  and  white,  the  server,  and  those 
two  who  knelt  at  the  rail  in  their  tumbled  finery.  Mary 
Sempill  gasped  and  would  have  cried  out,  Mary  Seton 
blinked  her  eyes,  as  if  to  give  herself  courage ;  but  Davy 
pointed  awfully  to  the  priest,  who  had  made  his  introit  and 
opened  the  missal,  and  now  stood  rapt,  with  his  hands 
stuck  out.  If  Arthur  Erskine  had  moved,  if  Des-Essars 
had  started  for  the  door,  these  fluttered  women  might 

have -  But  Erskine  stood  like  a  stone  Crusader,  and 

little  Jean-Marie  was  saying  his  prayers.  The  Earl  of 
Moray  was  without  the  door,  having  refused  to  come  in. 

1  She  had  asked  for  Father  Roche  the  moment  she  saw  the  celebrant  come 
in  ;  but  was  told  that  he  was  not  at  Wemyss.  This  we  learn  from  Des-Essars, 


i68 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


Thus  the  deed  was  done.  The  Italian  himself  shut  the 
chamber  door  upon  them  and  warned  off  the  scared  maids. 

Outside  that  door,  Adam  Gordon  and  Des-Essars  whis¬ 
pered  their  quarrel  out. 

‘  She  gave  me  a  ring  when  I  came  back  from  Liddesdale 
and  hunting  Bothwell,’  says  Adam. 

‘  Pooh,  man :  that  she  would  have  thrown  to  a  groom. 
Bastien  has  had  the  like.  And  what  matters  it  now 
whether  she  gave  thee  anything,  or  me  anything  ?  Ah  !  ’ 

‘  Let  me  hold  that  purse,  Baptist,  or  I’ll  scrag  ye.  ’Tis 
my  right.’ 

‘  How  your  right,  my  fine  sir  ?  ’ 

‘You  swore  that  we  should  share  her.  The  plan  was 
yours.  You  swore  it  on  the  cross.  And  you’ve  held  my 
ring  twice  in  your  hands,  and  had  it  on  your  finger  the 
length  of  the  Sentinel’s  Walk.  You  disgrace  yourself  by 
this  avarice.’ 

‘You  shall  not  hold  my  purse,  Adam;  but  you  may 
feel  it.’ 

‘  Let  me  feel  it,  then.  For  how  long  ?  ’ 

‘  Till  the  bell  goes  the  hour.’ 

‘That  is  only  a  minute  or  two.’ 

‘  It  will  be  ten  minutes,  I  tell  you.  Now  then,  if  you 
care.’ 

Master  Gordon  put  his  hand  into  the  bosom  of  Master 
Des-Essars  and  solemnly  pinched  the  purse. 

‘  She’ll  be  sleeping  now,’  said  Adam. 

‘  I  doubt  it,’  said  Jean-Marie. 


CHAPTER  XII 


EPITHALAMIUM  :  END  OF  ALL  MAIDS’  ADVENTURE 

He  fell  ill  of  measles,  the  young  prince,  before  they 
could  leave  Wemyss  —  measles  followed  by  much  weak¬ 
ness,  sweating,  and  ague ;  and  though  all  her  whispering 
world  —  but  the  few  —  might  wonder,  nothing  could  keep 
her  from  the  proud  uses  of  wifehood.  She  took  her  place 
by  his  bed  early  —  pale  with  care,  yet  composed  —  and  kept 
it  till  past  midnight  It  was  beautiful  to  see  her,  with  rank 
and  kingship  cast  aside,  more  dignified  by  her  little  private 
fortune,  more  a  queen  for  her  enclosed  realm.  For  now  she 
swayed  a  sick-room,  and  was  absolute  there:  let  seditious 
murmurings  and  alarms  toss  their  pikes  beyond  the  border. 

And  indeed  they  did.  Her  secret  marriage  had  been  so 
well  kept,  the  Court  fairly  hummed  with  scandal ;  and  the 
simple  truth  was  given  a  dog’s  death  that  romantic  tales 
might  thrive.  It  was  commonly  said  that  if  she  married 
him  now  it  would  only  be  because  shame  would  drive  her. 
The  Earl  of  Morton  went  about  with  this  clacking  on  his 
tongue  ;  plain  men  like  Atholl  and  Herries  looked  all  ways 
for  a  pardon  upon  the  doting  Queen.  In  their  company  the 
Earl  of  Moray  lifted  up  deprecating  hands  ;  he  agreed  with 
the  Earl  of  Morton,  advised  Atholl  and  Herries  to  pray 
without  ceasing.  The  winds  were  blowing  as  he  required 
them ;  but  this  sickness  was  vexatious,  with  the  delays  it 
brought.  Time  is  of  the  essence  of  the  contract,  even  if 
that  be  only  between  a  vainglorious  youth  and  a  rope. 
Mr.  Secretary  wrote  from  England  that  the  Queen  of  that 
country  was  implacably  against  the  marriage ;  it  was 

169 


170 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


possible  even  now  that  it  might  be  stopped.  But  it  must 
on  no  account  be  stopped. 

This  was,  in  early  May,  the  plain  view  of  the  Earl  of 
Moray :  that  the  thing  must  be  publicly  done,  and  soon 
done,  in  order  that  his  schemes  should  bear  fruit.  It  is  an 
odd,  almost  inexplicable  fact  that  he  was  to  change  his 
whole  mind  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  and  for  no  deeper 
reason  than  a  word  lightly  let  fall  by  the  Queen,  his  half- 
sister.  But  what  a  word  that  was  to  the  bastard  of  a  king ! 
It  was  the  word  King. 

There  came  to  Wemyss,  in  the  midst  of  these  measles 
and  scandalous  whisperings,  a  certain  Murray  of  Tulli- 
bardine,  a  friend  of  Bothwell’s —  him  and  one  Pringle. 
They  came  together,  and  yet  separately :  Pringle  with 
griefs  to  be  healed  —  that  he,  being  a  servant  of  my  Lord 
Bothwell’s,  had  been  summarily  dismissed  with  kicks  on  a 
sensitive  part;  Tullibardine  as  a  friend,  frankly  to  sue  his 
friend’s  pardon.  My  Lord  Moray  refused  to  help  him, 
having  neither  love  nor  use  for  a  Bothwell,  but  he  got  to 
the  Queen  by  the  back  stairs  and  put  his  client’s  case. 
However,  she  scarcely  listened  to  him.  Busy  as  she  was, 
it  was  strange  to  see  how  far  away  from  her  ken  the  dread 
Hepburn  had  drifted. 

‘From  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  —  you?  What  has  he  to 
report  of  himself  —  and  by  you  ?  ’ 

Tullibardine  spoke  of  duty,  forgiveness,  the  clemency  of 
the  prince,  while  the  Queen  stirred  the  broth  in  her  hand. 

‘  I  never  sent  him  to  France,’  she  said,  ‘but  to  the  Castle 
of  Edinburgh  rather.  He  set  me  at  nought  when  he  fled 
this  country.  Let  him  return  to  the  place  I  put  him  in, 
and  we  will  think  about  duty,  forgiveness,  and  the  prince’s 
clemency.  I  bear  him  no  more  ill-will  than  he  has  put  in 
me,  and  he  can  take  it  out  when  he  pleases.’ 

‘I  thank  your  Majesty,’  said  Tullibardine,  ‘and  my 
noble  friend  will  thank  you.’ 

‘He  has  only  himself  to  thank,  so  far  as  I  see,’  she 
replied,  and  dismissed  him  before  the  broth  could  get  cold. 

Meantime  the  Earl  of  Moray  had  held  a  godly  con¬ 
versation  with  afflicted  Pringle.  Pringle  had  much  to  say : 
as  that,  of  all  men  living,  the  Lord  Bothwell  hated  two  — 


CH.  XII 


EPITHALAMIUM 


171 


his  good  lordship  of  Moray  and  Mr.  Secretary.  He  had 
sworn  to  be  the  death  of  each  when  he  returned. 

The  Earl  of  Moray  compressed  his  lips,  straightened 
himself,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

‘  I  fear  for  him,  Pringle/  he  said,  ‘  the  wild,  misgoverned, 
glorious  young  man.  I  cannot  charge  myself  with  any 
offence  against  him,  and  yet  I  remember  that  when  I  was 
in  France  he  girded  at  me  more  than  once.  But  I  am 
accustomed  in  such  variancy  to  hold  my  plain  course. 
Pringle,  that  was  a  desperate  gentleman.  He  had  to  be 
forbid  the  Court.’ 

‘True,  my  lord,’  says  Pringle,  ‘and  your  lordship  knows 
to  what  abominable  usages  he  hath - ’ 

‘  Pray,  Pringle,  pray,  no  more  !  ’ 

Pringle  was  now  in  the  painful  position  of  having  staked 
out  a  short  road  and  finding  it  denied  him.  ‘  I  must 
whisper  in  your  lordship’s  ear.  I  must  make  so  bold.’ 

‘  Man,  I  refuse  you.  Heinous  living  be  far  from  me  !  ’ 

‘  My  lord,  I  have  heard  the  Lord  Bothwell  speak  of  the 
Queen’s  grace  in  a  manner - ’ 

‘  Ay,  it  is  like  enough,  poor  Pringle.  The  wicked  man 
seeth  wickedness  all  over.’ 

‘  He  spake  of  the  Queen,  my  lord  —  in  your  ear - ’ 

He  breathed  it  low,  a  vile  accusation  concerning  the 
Cardinal  of  Lorraine  and  the  Queen  —  his  niece,  and  then 
a  girl  of  eighteen. 

The  Earl  cowed  him  with  a  look.  ‘  Go,  Pringle,  go ! 
This  talk  should  never  have  been  held  between  us.  You 
have  misused  my  charity.  Go,  I  say.’ 

Pringle  shivered  out. 

In  his  time  the  Earl  of  Moray  saw  the  Queen,  and,  after 
due  preparation,  chose  to  tarnish  her  ears  with  the  tale. 

But  she  was  not  at  all  tarnished.  From  her  safe  seat, 
with  but  a  party-wall  between  her  husband  and  her,  she 
received  it  brightly. 

‘  Why,  what  a  ragged  tongue  he  hath  !  The  poor,  proud 
Cardinal !  Did  he  not  love  me  ?  I  believe  he  always 
did.’ 

‘  Madam,’  said  her  brother,  ‘you  interpret  gently.  This 
makes  the  slanderer’s  damnation  the  deeper.’ 


172 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


She  laughed.  4  It  is  plain,  brother,  that  you  know  little 
of  France.  In  France  the  truth  goes  for  nothing,  but  the 
jest  is  all.  My  Lord  Bothwell  has  been  much  in  France.’ 

‘  A  jest,  madam  ?  This  a  jest  ?  ’ 

‘  It  is  quite  in  their  manner.  I  remember  the  old 

King - ’  She  broke  off  suddenly.  4  Oh,  brother,  my 

King  is  more  at  ease !  This  morning  his  fever  left  him, 
and  there  broke  a  great  sweat.’ 

‘I  rejoice,’  said  he  —  ‘I  rejoice.  But  touching  this 
horrible  railer  —  if  he  should  crave  leave  to  return - ’ 

‘  He  has  craved  it  already,’  replied  the  Queen.  ‘  I 
answered  that  if  he  choose  to  come  back  to  his  prison 
he  may  do  it.  But  not  otherwise.  Brother,  I  must  go 
to  the  King.’ 

The  King  !  We  were  there,  then  ;  and  it  galled  him 
like  a  rowel.  Although  she  used  it  warily,  and  only  with 
the  nine  persons  who  were  privy,  he  could  not  bear  the 
word  ;  for  every  time  he  heard  it  he  was  stung  into  remem¬ 
bering  that  he  ought  to  have  foreseen  it  and  had  not. 
It  is  to  be  admitted  that  it  had  never  once  crossed  his 
mind  —  neither  the  word  nor  the  thing;  astute,  large- 
minded,  wide-ranging  as  he  was,  he  was  also  that  un¬ 
imaginative,  prim-thinking  man  who  has  pigeon-holes  for 
the  categories,  knows  nothing  of  passion  that  breaks  all 
rules,  nor  can  conceive  how  loyalty  is  like  meat  to  women 
in  love,  and  humility  like  wine.  Lethington  could  have 
told  him  these  things,  the  Italian  could  have  told  him,  any 
of  the  maids  ;  and  he  never  to  have  guessed  at  them  ! 
Dangerously  mortified  at  the  discovery,  his  disgust  with 
himself  and  the  fact  worked  together  into  one  great  dis¬ 
temper.  This  it  was  which  threw  him  out  of  his  balance, 
and  led  him  presently  to  the  greatest  length  he  ever  went ; 
but  at  present  it  was  only  gathering  in  him.  It  made  him 
doubtful,  distrustful  of  himself  and  all ;  and  when  he  looked 
about  for  supports  he  could  find  none  to  his  taste.  One 
folly  after  another!  How  he  had  cut  away  his  friends! 
There  was  Lethington  in  England.  There  was  the  Italian, 
who  knew  so  much.  He  sickened  at  the  thought  of  that 
capable  ruffian  who  had  helped  him  hasten  the  crowning 


CH.  XII 


EPITHALAMIUM 


173 


of  ‘the  King.’  Very  possibly  —  very  certainly,  it  seemed 
to  him  now,  brooding  over  it  in  stillness  and  the  dark  — 
very  possibly  the  ruin  of  his  life  had  been  laid  that  night 
when  he  had  sought  out  the  creature  in  his  den  and 
bought  him  with  a  diamond.  Argyll  was  here,  Rothes, 
Glencairn,  and  their  like,  and  Morton  the  Chancellor, 
whom  he  only  half  trusted.  Besides,  Morton  was  cousin 
of  this  flagrant  ‘  King,’  and  would  rise  as  he  rose.  On  the 
whole,  and  for  want  of  better,  he  consorted  with  Argyll 
and  his  friends,  and  dared  go  so  far  as  this,  to  tell  them 
that  he  had  fears  of  the  marriage. 

‘  I  could  have  wished,’  he  said  to  Argyll,  ‘  a  livelier 
sense  of  favours  done  in  so  young  a  man ;  also  that  my 
sister  might  have  judged  more  soberly  how  far  to  meet 
him.  If  men  of  age  and  known  probity  had  been 
consulted !  ’ 

Glencairn,  a  passably  honest  man,  and  undoubtedly  a 
pious  man,  said  tentatively  here,  that  no  lord  of  the 
Council  could  be  found  to  support  the  Prince.  As  for 
the  Queen’s  grace - 

‘  She  has  been  unhappily  rash,’  says  Moray ;  ‘  I  cannot 
think  more.  Maidenly  lengths  would  have  become  her,  a 
queenly  regard,  but  surely  no  more.’  He  turned  to  Argyll. 

‘  Frankly,  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Knox  should  not  hear  of 
these  late  doings  —  of  these  bedside  ministrations,  these 
transports,  these  fits  of  self-communing,  this  paltering 
with  the  tempter,  this  doffing  of  regalities.  I  pray,  I 
pray  for  Scotland !  ’ 

‘  The  gowk’s  a  papist,’  says  Argyll,  a  plain  man. 

‘  He  is  young,  brother-in-law ;  that  we  remember 
always.’ 

‘  He  stinks  of  pride,’  says  Argyll,  —  ‘  sinful,  lusty  pride 
of  blood.  If  this  marriage  be  made  we  shall  all  rue  it.’ 

The  Earl  of  Moray  clapped  a  hand  to  each  of  his 
shoulders. 

‘  Brother-in-law,  pray  for  Scotland !  ’ 

‘  Oh,  ay,’  says  Argyll,  ‘  and  put  an  edge  to  my  Andrew 
Ferrara.’ 

How  she  lingered  over  him,  prayed  over  him,  watched 


174 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


every  petulant  twitching  of  his  limbs,  no  one  could  know 
altogether  save  Mary  Sempill,  and  she  had  affairs  of  her 
own  to  consider  —  a  wife  who  knew  she  was  going  to  be  a 
mother.  But  for  this  proud  preoccupation,  she  might  have 
seen  how  touchingly  the  Queen  made  the  most  of  her 
treasure,  and  how  all  the  ardour  which  had  hurried  her 
into  wedlock  was  now  whipped  up  again  to  prove  it  bliss. 
Was  he  fretful  —  and  was  he  not?  It  was  the  fever  in  his 
dear  bones.  Was  he  gross-mannered  ?  Nay,  but  one  must 
be  tender  of  young  blood.  Did  he  choose  to  have  his  Eng¬ 
lishmen  about  him,  his  Archie  Douglas  to  tell  him  salt 
tales,  while  she  sat  with  her  maids  and  waited  ?  Well, 
well,  a  man  must  have  men  with  him  now  and  again,  and 
is  never  the  better  husband  for  cosseting.  When  they 
urged  her  to  be  a  queen,  she  lowered  her  eyes  and  said 
she  was  a  wife.  This  raised  an  outcry. 

‘  He  is,  he  can  only  be,  your  consort,  madam.’ 

‘  I  am  his,  you  mean,’  said  she.  ‘  The  man  chooses  the 
woman.  There  are  no  crowns  in  the  bridal  bed,  and  none 
in  heaven.  Naked  go  we  to  both.’ 

Mary  Sempill  wrung  her  hands  over  talk  of  the  sort. 

‘  Out,  alas  !  My  foolish,  fond,  sweet  lass  !  ’ 

But  Mary  Fleming  considered,  nursing  her  cheek  in  the 
way  she  had.  ‘  The  strength  of  a  man  overrides  all  your 
politics,  my  dear,’  she  said  gently.  ‘The  Salic  Law  is  the 
law  of  nature,  I  have  heard  men  say.’ 

‘  God  smite  this  youth  if  he  try  it !  ’  said  Sempill  fiercely. 

‘  He’ll  set  the  heather  afire  and  burn  us  all  in  our  beds. 
And  you,  Fleming,  will  have  need  of  mercy  in  your  turn, 
if  you  hearken  to  your  grey-faced  Lethington.’ 

‘  Mr.  Secretary  has  a  very  noble  heart,  Mary.  I  hope 
I  may  say  the  same  of  your  Master.’ 

Mary  Sempill  sniffed.  ‘  My  Master,  as  you  call  him, 
has  a  head  for  figures.  He  can  cipher  you  two  and  two. 
And  he  says  of  your  Lethington  that  he  is  working  mischief 
in  England.’ 

Mary  Fleming  rose  with  spirit  to  this  challenge.  ‘I 
cannot  believe  it.  You  are  angry  with  me  because  you 
are  vexed  with  the  King.’ 

Then  it  was  Mary  Sempill  to  bounce  away.  ‘  The  King ! 


CH.  XII 


EPITHALAMIUM 


175 


Never  use  that  word  to  me,  woman.  There  shall  be  no 
King  in  Scotland  till  my  mistress  bears  him.’ 

But  she  was  talking  without  her  book. 

They  moved  to  Stirling  as  soon  as  the  young  lord  was 
mended ;  and  thither  came  the  Earl  of  Lennox,  in  a  high 
taking  foxy,  close-eyed,  crop-bearded,  fussy  and  foolish 
—  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  Prince  his  son.  Never  was  a 
more  disastrous  combination  made :  they  cut  the  Court  in 
half,  as  shears  a  length  of  cloth.  The  garrulity  of  the  old 
man  set  everybody  on  edge ;  then  came  the  insolent  son, 
to  prove  the  truth  even  worse  than  they  had  feared.  His 
father  egged  him  on  to  preposterous  lengths,  intolerable 
behaviour;  so  the  ‘pretty  cockerel,’  as  they  called  him  in 
Prance,  made  wild  work  in  the  hill-town.  He  quarrelled  so 
fiercely  with  my  Lord  Rothes  that  Davy  had  to  pull  him 
off  by  main  force,  and  then  he  drew  his  dagger  on  the  Lord 
Justice  Clerk,  who  came  to  his  lodging  with  a  message  from 
the  Queen.  ’ 

‘Tell  your  mistress,’  he  had  cried  out  to  that  astonished 
officer,  ‘  that  I  pay  honour  to  none  but  the  honourable. 
You  have  come  here  with  lies  in  your  throat.  She  sent  me 
no  such  message.  You  are  a  very  dirty  fellow.’ 

Archie  Douglas  put  in  his  oar.  ‘No,  no,  sir.  You 

jest  with  the  Lord  Justice  Clerk  —  but  your  jest  is  too 
broad.’ 

‘By  God,  man,’  says  the  Prince,  ‘this  jest  of  mine  is 
narrow  at  the  point.  Let  him  come  on  and  taste  the  forky 
tongue  of  it.’ 

The  Lord  Justice  Clerk  was  too  flustered  to  be  offended 
at  the  moment ;  but  when  he  had  gained  the  calm  of  the 
street  he  shuddered  to  recall  the  scene.  Her  Majesty  must 
be  informed  of  every  circumstance  :  flesh  and  blood  could 
not  endure  such  affronts.  It  needed  all  her  Majesty’s 
cajolery  to  salve  the  wounded  man,  and  more  than  she 
had  over  to  comfort  herself  when  he  had  gone  away 
mollified. 

Lord  Ruthven  was  one  of  the  Prince’s  intimates  at  this 
time,  a  malign  influence ;  and  the  everlasting  Italian  was 
another.  Signior  Davy,  at  home  in  all  the  chambers  of 
the  house,  used  to  sit  on  the  edge  of  the  young  man’s  bed 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


176 


and  pare  his  nails  while  he  talked  philosophy  and  state¬ 
craft.  It  was  he  who  tempered  the  storm  which  had  nearly 
maddened  the  Lord  Justice  Clerk. 

‘Your  lordship  is  in  a  fair  way  to  the  haven,’  he  said. 
‘  I  tell  you  honestly  you  will  get  on  no  quicker  for  this 
choler.  You  must  needs  be  aware  that  her  Majesty  will 
have  no  rest  until  you  and  she  are  publicly  wedded.  She 
is  fretting  herself  to  strings  under  that  desire.  What  then 
is  my  advice  to  your  lordship  ?  Why,  to  sit  very  still,  and 
to  insist  with  your  respectable  father  that  he  hold  his 
tongue.  I  speak  plainly ;  but  it  is  to  my  friend  and 
patron.’ 

The  Prince  was  not  offended  —  but  he  was  obstinate. 

‘  Speak  as  plain  as  you  please,  Davy,  and  deal  for  me  as 
warily  as  you  can.  The  patent  should  be  sealed.’ 

That  was  the  root  of  the  quarrel  —  his  patent  of  creation 
to  be  Duke  of  Rothesay.  The  Queen  had  promised  it  to 
him,  but  there  had  been  vexed  debate  over  it  in  the 
Council.  It  was  a  title  for  kings’  sons,  and  had  always 
been  so.  The  Earl  of  Moray  vehemently  opposed;  the 
Argylls,  Glencairns,  and  others  of  his  friends  followed  him  ; 
they  had  hopes  also  of  the  Chancellor.  At  the  minute, 
therefore,  although  the  Queen  had  insisted  even  unto  tears, 
she  had  not  been  able  to  get  her  way.  So  she  pretended 
to  give  over  the  effort,  meaning,  of  course,  to  work  round 
about  for  it.  She  had  seen  the  Chancellor’s  wavering :  if 
she  could  gain  him  she  would  have  much.  All  she  wanted 
for  herself  was  time,  all  from  the  Prince  was  patience.  But 
the  furious  fool  had  none  to  lend  her. 

When  the  Italian  had  done  his  work  upon  his  nails  — 
the  rough  with  the  knife,  the  rounding-off  with  his  teeth  — 
he  resumed  his  spoken  thoughts. 

‘Your  patent,’  he  said,  ‘is  as  good  as  sealed.  The 
Queen  is  at  work  upon  it  in  ways  which  are  past  your  lord- 
ship’s  finding  out.  For  the  love  of  mercy,  be  patient :  you 
little  know  what  you  are  risking  by  this  intemperance. 
Why,  with  patience  you  will  gain  what  no  patent  of  her 
Majesty’s  can  give  you  :  that  little  matter  of  kingship, 
which,  in  such  a  case  as  yours,  goes  only  by  proclamation 
and - ’ 


CH.  XII 


EPITHALAMIUM 


1 77 


My  lord  pricked  up  his  ears  to  this  royal  word.  ‘  Ha ! 
In  a  good  hour,  Master  David !  ’ 

‘Good  enough,  when  it  comes,’  says  Davy;  ‘but  you 
did  not  allow  me  to  finish.  Proclamation  —  and  acclama¬ 
tion,  I  was  about  to  add;  for  one  is  as  needed  as  the 
other.’ 

This  was  a  fidgety  addition. 

‘  Pooh  !  ’  cried  the  Prince,  ‘  the  pack  follows  the  horn.’ 

He  set  the  Italian  s  shoulders  to  work.  ‘  I  advise  you 
not  to  count  upon  it,  my  lord.  In  this  country  there  is  no 
pack  of  hounds,  but  a  flock  — many  flocks  — of  sheep. 
And  they  follow  the  shepherd,  you  must  know.  Therefore 
you  must  be  prudent;  let  me  say,  more  prudent.  The 
Queen  comes  to  you  too  much ;  you  go  to  her  too  little. 
It  is  she  that  pays  the  court,  where  it  should  be  you.  Dio 
mio!  It  is  not  decent.  It  is  madness.’ 

‘  She  is  fond  of  me,  Davy.  The  truth  is,  she  is  over-fond 
of  me.’ 

Signior  Davy . stopped  himself  just  in  time.  He  buried 
his  exclamation  in  a  prodigious  shrug. 

The  doings  of  the  Lennoxes,  father  and  son,  which 
scared  the  Court  so  finely,  were  the  Earl  of  Moray’s  only 
hope.  He,  in  truth,  was  very  near  finding  himself  in  the 
position  of  a  man  who  should  have  lit  a  fire  to  keep  wolves 
from  his  door.  The  flames  catch  the  eaves  and  burn  his 
house  down  :  behold  him  without  shelter,  and  the  wolves 
coming  on  !  This  is  exactly  his  own  case.  Kingship  for 
the  young  man,  by  whose  entangling  he  had  hoped  to 
entangle  his  sister,  was  a  noose  round  his  own  neck  —  the 
mere  threat  of  it  was  a  noose.  If  he  furthered  it  he  was 
ruined;  if  he  opposed  it  — at  this  hour  of  the  day  —  he 
might  equally  be  ruined.  All  his  hope  lay  in  England. 
Let  the  Queen  of  England  send  for  her  runaway  subjects, 
and  then  —  why,  he  could  begin  again.  As  day  succeeded 
to  day,  and  favour  to  favour — the  dukedom  conferred,  the 
match  in  every  one’s  mouth,  the  Court  at  Edinburgh,  the 
Chapel  Royal  in  fair  view  —  he  worked  incessantly.  He 
dared  not  try  the  Italian  again,  lest  the  impudent  dog 
should  grin  in  his  face ;  but  he  secured  Argyll  and  his 
friends,  the  Duke  of  Chatelherault  and  his  ;  he  wrote  to 

M 


i;8 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


Lethington,  to  Mr.  Cecil,  to  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  to 
Queen  Elizabeth.  And  so  it  befel  that,  one  certain  morn¬ 
ing,  English  Mr.  Randolph  faced  the  Lennoxes  with  his 
mistress’s  clear  commands.  Father  and  son  were  to  return 
to  England,  or - 

Quos  ego  —  in  fact ;  much  too  late  for  the  fair.  They 
took  the  uncompromising  message  each  after  his  kind : 
Lennox,  white-haired,  ape-faced  and  fussy,  sitting  in  his 
deep  leather  chair,  rolling  his  palms  over  the  knobs  of  it, 
swinging  his  feet  free  of  the  ground  ;  the  Prince  his  son 
stiff  as  a  rod,  standing,  with  one  hand  to  his  padded  hip  — 
blockish  and  surly  as  a  rogue  mule. 

Lennox  spoke  first.  ‘Hey,  Master  Randolph!’  —  his 
little  naked  eyes  were  like  pin-pricks  —  ‘  Hey,  Master 
Randolph,  I  dare  not  do  it.  No,  no.  It’s  not  in  the  power 
of  man  living  to  do  the  like  of  it.’ 

Randolph  shifted  his  scrutiny.  The  Prince  was  angry, 
therefore  bold ;  assured,  therefore  haughty. 

‘  And  I,  Randolph,’  he  said,  ‘  tell  you  fairly  that  go  I 
will  not.’ 

Randolph  became  dry.  ‘  I  hope  my  lord,  for  a  better 
answer  to  the  Queen  your  sovereign.  Will  and  Shall  are 
bad  travelling  companions  for  a  legate.  I  urge  once  more 
your  duty  upon  you.’ 

‘  Duty  !  ’  cried  the  flushed  youth :  ‘  I  own  to  no  duty  but 
Queen  Mary’s,  and  I  never  will.  As  to  the  other  Queen, 
your  mistress,  who  grudges  me  my  fortune,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  she  needs  me.  You  will  understand  wherefore  in  a 
few  days’  time.  I  do  not  intend  to  return  :  there  is  your 
answer.  I  am  very  well  where  I  am,  and  likely  to  be 
better  yet  anon.  So  I  purpose  to  remain.  There  is  your 
answer,  which  seems  to  me  a  good  one.’ 

Randolph  turned  his  back  and  left  them.  When  he  saw 
the  Earl  of  Moray  he  said  that  he  had  done  his  best  to 
serve  him ;  and  that,  although  he  had  no  hope  of  staying 
the  marriage,  his  lordship  might  count  upon  the  friendship 
of  England  in  all  enterprises  he  might  think  well  to  engage 
in  ‘  for  the  welfare  of  both  realms.’  This  was  cold  comfort. 

Shortly  after  this  disappointment  the  careworn  lord  got 
into  a  wrangle  with  the  Prince  in  a  public  place  —  not  a 


CH.  XII 


EPITHALAMIUM 


r  79 


difficult  thing  to  do.  It  began  with  the  young  mail’s  loud 
rebuke  of  Mr.  Knox,  who  (said  he)  had  called  him  ‘a 
covetous  clawback,’  and  whose  ears  he  threatened  to  crop 
with  a  pair  of  shears.  Beginning  in  the  vestibule  of  the 
Council-chamber,  it  was  continued  on  the  open  cawsey  in 
everybody’s  hearing.  There  was  heat ;  the  younger  may 
have  raised  his  hand  against  the  elder,  or  he  may  not.  The 
Earl,  at  any  rate,  declared  that  he  went  in  fear  of  his  life. 
Then  came  the  hour,  most  memorable,  when  he  saw  the 
Queen  alone. 

He  was  sent  for,  and  he  came,  as  he  told  her  at  once, 
‘with  his  life  in  his  hand.’ 

She  asked  him  who  would  touch  his  hand,  except  to 
take  it  and  shake  it  ? 

‘  One,  madam,’  he  replied  darkly,  ‘who  is  too  near  your 
Majesty  for  my  honour  or - ’  and  there  he  stopped. 

‘  Or  mine,  would  you  say  ?  ’  she  flashed  back  at  him  — 
one  of  her  penetrative  flashes,  following  a  quick  turn  of  the 
head.  Remember,  she  knew  nothing  of  his  brawl  with  the 
Prince. 

He  disregarded  her  riposte ,  and  pursued  his  suspicions. 
‘  Madam,  madam,  I  very  well  know  —  for  I  still  have  friends 
in  Scotland  —  in  what  danger  I  stand.  I  very  well  know 
who  talked  together  against  me  behind  the  back-gallery  at 
Perth,  and  can  guess  at  what  was  said,  and  how  this  late 
discreditable  scene  was  laid - ’ 

‘  Oh,  you  guess  this,  brother !  you  guess  that !  ’  the 
Queen  snapped  at  him ;  ‘  I  am  weary  of  your  guesses 
against  my  friends.  There  was  the  Earl  of  Bothwell, 
whom  you  guessed  your  mortal  enemy ;  now  I  suppose  it 
is  the  Prince,  my  husband.  Do  you  think  all  Scotland 
finds  you  in  the  way  ?  It  is  easy  for  you  to  remove  the 
suspicion.’ 

His  looks  reproached  her.  ‘  Did  you  send  for  me, 
madam,  to  wound  me  ?  ’ 

‘No,  no.  You  have  served  me  well.  I  am  not  un¬ 
mindful.’  Her  eyes  grew  gentle  as  she  remembered 
Wemyss  and  the  hasty  mysteries  of  the  night  —  the  hurry, 
the  whispered  urgings,  the  wild-beating  heart.  She  held 
out  her  hand,  shyly,  as  befitted  recognition  of  a  blushful 


i8o  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  i 

service.  ‘  I  can  never  quarrel  with  you,  brother,  knowing 
what  you  know,  remembering  what  you  have  seen.’ 

Whither  was  fled  the  finer  sense  of  the  man  ?  He  mis¬ 
understood  her  grossly,  believing  that  she  feared  his 
knowledge.  He  did  not  take  her  proffered  hand  —  she 
drew  it  back  after  a  while,  slowly. 

‘You  say  well,  sister,’  he  answered,  with  cold  reserve. 
‘There  should  be  no  quarrel,  nor  need  there  be,  while  you 
remember  me  —  and  yourself.’ 

‘  It  was  not  at  all  in  my  mind,  I  assure  you,’  she  told 
him,  with  an  air  of  dismissing  the  foolish  thing;  and  went 
on,  in  the  same  breath,  to  speak  of  the  vexatious  news 
from  England  —  as  if  he  and  she  were  of  the  same  opinion 
about  that!  Her  ‘good  sister,’  she  said,  was  holding 
strange  language,  requiring  the  return  of  ‘  subjects  in 
contumacy,’  showing  herself  offended  at  unfriendly  dealing, 
and  what  not  —  letters,  said  Queen  Mary,  which  required 
speedy  answer,  and  could  have  but  one  answer.  The 
Contract  of  Matrimony,  in  short,  had  been  prepared  by  my 
Lord  Morton,  was  ready  to  be  signed  ;  the  high  parties 
were  more  than  ready.  Should  she  send  for  the  treaty  ? 
She  wished  her  brother  to  see  it.  That  was  why  she  had 
summoned  him. 

He  was  seldom  at  a  loss,  for  when  direction  failed  him 
he  had  a  store  of  phrases  ready  to  eke  out  the  time.  But 
now  that  he  was  plumply  face  to  face  with  what  he  had 
come  both  to  hate  and  to  fear,  he  stammered  and  looked 
all  about. 

She  rang  her  hand-bell,  and  bade  the  page  call  Signior 
Davy  ‘  and  the  parchment-writing  ’ ;  then,  while  she  waited 
in  matronly  calm,  sedately  seated,  hands  in  lap,  he  wrestled 
with  his  alarms,  suspicions,  grievances,  disgusts  ;  saw  them 
flare  before  him  like  shapes  —  lewd,  satyr  shapes  with  their 
tongues  out ;  lost  control  of  himself,  and  broke  out. 

‘The  marriage-band,  you  speak  of?  Ah  —  ah  —  but 
there  is  much  to  say  anent  such  a  thing  —  a  tedious 
inquiry!  Madam  —  madam  —  I  should  have  exhibited  to 

you  before  —  the  fault  is  in  me  that  I  did  not -  There 

is  a  common  sense  abroad  —  no  man  can  fight  a  nation  — 
it  is  thought  that  the  case  is  altered.  Yes,  yes  !  Monarchs 


CH.  XII 


EPITHALAMIUM 


1 8 1 


—  you  that  be  set  in  authority  over  men  —  are  to  be  warned 

by  them  that  stand  about  your  thrones,  monished  and 
exhorted.  ’Tis  your  duty  to  listen,  theirs  to  impart: 
duty  to  God  and  the  conscience.  I  am  sore  at  a  loss  for 
words - ’ 

Probably  she  had  not  been  listening  very  closely,  or 
heeding  his  agitation.  She  stopped  him  with  a  little 
short  laugh. 

‘  Nay,  ’tis  not  words  you  lack.  Find  courage,  brother.’ 

‘  Why,  madam,’  said  he,  ‘  and  so  I  must.  “  It  is  ex¬ 
pedient,”  saith  the  Book,  “  that  one  man  die - ”  !  What 

a  whole  nation  dreads,  there  must  be  some  one  to  declare 

—  even  though,  in  so  doing,  he  should  seem  to  stultify 
himself.  Oh,  madam,  is  not  the  case  altered  from  what 
it  promised  at  first  ?  Alas,  what  hope  can  we  now  have 

—  seeing  what  we  have  seen  —  that  this  young  man  will 

prove  a  setter-forth  of  Christ’s  religion  ?  Or  how  can  we 
suppose  that  he  will  ensue  what  we  most  desire  —  I  mean 
the  peace  of  God  upon  true  believers  ?  Do  they  know 
him  in  England  and  suppose  that  of  him  ?  Then  how 
can  we  suppose  it?  Why,  what  token  hath  he  showed 
towards  the  faithful  but  that  of  rancour?  What  pro¬ 
fessions  hath  he  made,  save  them  of  mass-mongering, 
false  prophecy,  idolatry,  loving  darkness,  shunning  the 
light  ?  Oh,  madam,  I  am  sore  to  say  these  things - ’ 

The  Italian  entered  with  his  parchments  before  he  could 
hurry  to  a  close  or  she  stop  him  with  an  outcry. 

It  needed  not  so  quick  an  eye  to  sense  the  brewing  of 
a  storm.  The  Queen  sat  back  in  her  chair,  cowering  in 
the  depths  of  it.  Her  eyes  were  fastened  upon  a  little 
glass  bowl  which  stood  on  the  table  —  in  a  broody  stare 
which  saw  nothing  but  midnight.  The  Earl,  white  to  the 
edge  of  his  lips,  was  waving  his  hands  in  the  air.  Bright 
and  confident,  the  Italian  stood  at  the  door ;  but  my 
lord,  in  his  agitation,  turned  upon  him.  ‘  Man,  you’re  a 
trespasser.  Off  with  you!  The  Queen  is  in  council  —  off!’ 

‘  Scitsi ,’  says  Davy,  *  I  am  summoned.  Eccomi.} 

He  was  dramatically  quiet ;  he  woke  the  Queen. 

She  started  from  her  chair  and  ran  to  him.  ‘  Oh, 
David,  David,  he  denies  me!  Perjury!  Perjury!’ 


i82 


BK.  I 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

<  Sovereign  lady,’  said  the  Italian,  ‘  here  is  one  who  will 

never  deny  you  anything.  . 

As  he  knelt  my  lord  recovered  his  dignity.  It  is  not 

convenient,  madam - ’  .  j  ,  ... 

Ah  but  she  faced  about.  ‘  Convenient !  convenient . 

To  end  what  you  have  begun?  You!  that  led  me  to 

him  !  You  that  drove  us  in  with  your  breath  like  a  sheet 

He  put  up  his  hand,  driven  to  defend  himself.  ‘Nay, 
madam,  nay!  It  cannot  be  said.  My  design  was  never 
adopted  —  it  was  misunderstood.  I  bowed  to  no  idols 
that  be  far  from  me.  I  was  outside  the  door.  I  neit  er 
know  what  was  done  within  your  chapel,  nor  afterwards 
within  any  chambers  of  the  house.  My  only  office 

WaShe  held  herself  by  the  throat  —  all  gathered  together, 

as  if  she  would  spring  at  him. 

Signior  Davy  looked  mildly  from  one  to  the  other. 

<  ScusV  he  said,  his  voice  soft  as  milk,  ‘  but  your  lordship 
was  not  outside  all  doors.  I  know  to  a  point  how  much 

your  lordship  knows.’ 

The  Earl  gasped  for  breath. 

At  this  point  the  Queen  seemed  to  have  got  strength 
through  the  hands.  She  let  them  down  from  her  neck,  as 
if  the  spasm  had  passed.  Her  heart  spoke  a  }yn(~  CYY- 

<  He  brought  me  to  the  chamber  door,  and  kissed  my 

cheek,  and  wished  me  joy !  ’  She  spoke  like  one  enrapt, 
a  disembodied  sprite,  as  if  the  soul  could  have  seen  the 
body  in  act,  and  now  rehearse  the  tale.  ‘  He  led  me  to 
the  chamber  door,  and  kissed  my  cheek  !  “  Sweet  mg  t,^ 

says  he,  “  sweet  sister  !  See  how  your  dreams  come  true. 
And  “  Burning  cheek  !  ”  says  he  ;  and  “  Fie,  fie,  the  wil 
blood  of  a  lass !  ”  I  think  my  cheek  did  prophesy,  and 
burn  for  the  shame  to  come.’  She  turned  them  a  tragic 
shape  —  drawn  mouth,  great  eyes,  expository  hands. 

‘  Why,  sirs,  if  a  groom  trick  a  poor  wench  and  deny  her 
her  lines,  you  put  her  up  in  a  sheet,  and  freeze  the  vice 
out  of  her  with  your  prying  eyes !  Get  you  a  white  sheet 
for  Queen  Mary  and  stare  the  devil  out  of  her  !  Go  you  : 
why  do  you  wait?  Ah,  pardon,  I  had  forgot!  She 


CH.  XII 


EPITHALAMIUM 


183 


exhibited  one  to  the  other.  ‘  This  man  has  no  time  to 
spare  that  he  may  chastise  the  naughty.  The  throned  is 
made  shameful  that  the  throne  may  be  emptied.  Give 
him  a  leg,  David ;  he  will  stand  your  friend  for  it.’ 

‘  Dear  madam  !  sweet  madam  !  ’  murmured  the  Italian. 

But  she  had  left  him  nowfor  the  white  skulker  by  the  door. 
‘  Oh  you,  you,  you,  in  your  hurry  !  ’  she  mocked  him,  ‘  deny 
me  not  my  shroud  and  candle.  For  if  you  are  to  sit  in  my 
seat  I  will  stand  at  the  kirk  gate  and  cry  into  all  hearts  that 
go  by,  “  See  me  here  as  I  stand  in  my  shroud.  I  am  the 
threshold  he  trod  upon.  He  reached  his  degree  o’er  the 
spoils  of  a  girl.”  ’  She  came  closer  to  him,  peering  and 
whispering.  ‘  And  I  will  be  nearer,  my  lord,  whenas  you 
are  dead.  I  will  flit  over  the  graves  of  the  kings  my 
ancestors  till  I  find  the  greenest,  and  there  shall  I  sit  o’ 
nights,  chattering  your  tale  to  the  men  that  be  there  with 
their  true-born  about  them.  “  Ho,  you  that  were  lawful 
kings  of  Scotland,  listen  now  to  me !  ”  I  shall  say.  And 
they  will  lift  their  heads  in  their  vaults  and  lean  upon 
their  bony  elbows  at  ease  and  hear  of  your  shameful  birth 
and  life  of  lies  and  treasons,  and  most  miserable  death.  And 
you  in  your  cerements  will  lie  close,  I  think,  my  brother, 
lest  the  very  dead  turn  their  backs  on  you.’ 

She  stopped,  struggling  for  breath.  The  dangerous 
ecstasy  held  her  still,  like  a  rigor ;  but  he,  who  with  shut 
eyes  and  fending  arms  had  been  avoiding,  now  lifted  his 
head. 

‘You  misjudge  me  —  you  are  too  hasty - ’ 

As  a  woman  remote  from  him  and  his  affairs  she 
answered  him,  ‘  Not  so.  But  I  have  been  too  slow.’ 

‘Your  Majesty  should  see - ’ 

She  sprang  into  vehemence,  transfigured  once  more  by 
fierce  and  terrible  beauty. 

‘I  do  see.  You  are  a  liar.  I  see  you  through  and 
through,  and  the  lies,  like  snakes,  in  your  heart.  I  will 
never  willingly  see  you  again.’ 

Still  he  tried  to  reason  with  her.  ‘  If  accommodation 
of  joint  griefs - ’ 

‘None!  There  can  be  none.  Where  do  we  join,  sir? 
Tell  me,  and  I  will  burn  the  part.’ 


184  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  i 

*  Dear  sir,’  said  the  Italian,  as  she  paced  the  room, 
gathering  more  eloquence  —  ‘dear  sir,  I  advise  you  to 
depart.’ 

The  Earl  was  stung  by  the  familiarity.  ‘  Be  silent, 
fellow.  Madam,  suffer  me  one  more  word.’ 

‘  You  drown  in  your  words.  Therefore,  yes.’ 

He  gathered  his  wits  together  for  this  poor  opportunity. 
‘I  have  been  misjudged,’  he  said,  ‘and  know  very  well  to 
whom  I  stand  debtor  for  that.  Nevertheless,  I  would  still 
serve  your  Grace  in  chamber  and  in  hall,  so  far  as  my 
conscience  will  suffer  me.  I  say,  that  is  my  desire.  But 
if  you  drive  me  from  you ;  if  I  am  turned  from  my  father’s 
birthright -  I  beseech  you  to  consider  with  what  pain¬ 

ful  knowledge  I  depart.  If  I  have  witnessed  unprincely 
dealing  in  high  places - ’ 

She  openly  scorned  him.  ‘Drown,  sir,  drown!  No, 
stay.  I  will  throw  you  a  plank.’ 

She  rang  the  bell.  Des-Essars  answered.  ‘  If  my  lord 
the  Chancellor  is  in  hall,  or  in  the  precincts  in  any  part, 
I  desire  his  presence  here.  If  he  is  abroad,  send  Mr. 
Erskine  —  and  with  speed.’ 

The  boy  withdrew.  She  sat,  staring  at  nothing.  The 
two  men  stood.  Absolute  silence. 

The  Chanceller  happened  to  be  by.  He  was  found  in 
the  tennis-court,  calling  the  game.  Much  he  pondered  the 
summons,  and  scratched  in  his  red  beard. 

‘  Who  is  with  the  Queen,  laddie  ?  ’ 

He  was  told,  the  Italian  and  my  Lord  of  Moray. 
Making  nothing  of  it,  he  whistled  for  his  servant,  who 
lounged  with  others  at  the  door. 

‘Hurry,  Jock  Scott!  my  cloak,  sword,  and  bonnet.  At 
what  hour  is  the  Council  ?  ’ 

‘  My  lord,  at  noon.’ 

He  went  off,  muttering,  ‘  What’s  in  the  wind  just  now  ?  ’ 
and  as  he  went  by  the  great  entry  saw  the  guard  running, 
and  heard  a  shout :  ‘  Room  for  the  Prince’s  grace  !  ’  He 
could  see  the  plumes  of  the  riders  and  the  press  about 
them.  ‘  It’ll  be  a  new  cry  before  long,  I’m  thinking,’  he 
said  to  himself,  and  went  upstairs. 


CH.  XII 


EPITHALAMIUM 


185 


Entering  that  silent  room,  he  bent  his  knee  to  the  Queen. 
She  did  not  notice  his  reverence,  but  said  at  once  :  ‘  My 
Lord  Chancellor,  I  shall  not  sit  at  the  Council  to-day. 
You  will  direct  the  clerk  to  add  a  postill 1  to  the  name  of 
my  Lord  of  Moray  here.’ 

‘  Madam,  with  good  will.  What  shall  his  postill  be  ?  ’ 

‘You  shall  write  against  his  name,  Last  time  he  sits.  I 
know  that  your  business  is  heavy.  Farewell,  my  lords.’ 

Morton  and  Moray  went  out  together.  At  the  end  of 
the  corridor  and  head  of  the  stair,  Morton  stopped. 

‘  Man,  my  Lord  of  Moray,  what  is  this  ?  ’ 

For  answer,  the  Earl  of  Moray  looked  steadily  at  him 
for  a  moment :  then,  ‘  Come,  come,’  he  said,  ‘  we  must  go 
to  our  work,  you  and  I.’ 

They  said  no  more ;  but  went  through  the  hall,  and 
heard  the  Prince’s  ringing  voice,  high  above  all  the  others, 
calling  for  ‘that  black  thief  Ruthven.’  They  saluted  a 
few  and  received  many  salutations.  Lord  John  Stuart 
passed  them,  his  arm  round  the  neck  of  his  Spanish  page, 
and  stared  at  his  brother  without  greeting.  These  two 
hated  each  other,  as  all  the  world  knew.  That  same  night 
the  Earl  of  Moray  left  Edinburgh,  and  went  into  Argyll, 
where  all  his  friends  were.  It  was  to  be  nine  months 
before  he  could  lay  his  head  down  in  his  own  house 
again. 

Very  little  passed  between  the  Queen  and  her  Secretary. 
She  sat  quite  still,  staring  and  glooming ;  he  moved  about, 
touching  a  thing  here  and  there,  like  a  house-servant  who, 
by  habit,  dusts  the  clean  furniture.  This  brought  him  by 
degrees  close  to  her  chair.  Then  he  said  quickly,  ‘  Madam, 
let  me  speak.’ 

‘  Ay,  speak,  David.’ 

‘  Madam,’  he  said,  ‘this  is  not  likely  to  be  work  for  fair 
ladies,  though  they  be  brave  as  they  are  fair.  I  have  seen 
it  growing  —  this  disturbance  —  a  many  days.  He  is  not 
alone  by  any  means,  my  lord  your  brother.  Madam,  send 
a  messenger  into  France.  Send  your  little  Jean-Marie.’ 

She  looked  up.  ‘  Into  France  ?  ’ 

1  Postill ,  a  marginal  note. 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


1 86 


‘Madam,  yes.  Send  a  messenger  into  France.  Let 
him  fetch  home  the  Earl  of  Bothwell.’ 

She  started.  ‘  Him  ?  ’ 

Riccio  nodded  his  head  quickly. 

Whereupon  she  said,  ‘  He  is  not  in  France.’ 

‘Send  for  him,  madam,’  said  Riccio,  ‘wheresoever  he 
may  be — him  and  no  other.  Remember  also  —  but  no 
hurry  for  that  —  that  you  have  my  Lord  Gordon  under 
your  hand.  At  need,  remember  him.  A  fine  young  man  ! 
But  the  other !  Oh,  send  quickly  for  him  !  Eh,  eh,  what 
a  captain  against  rebels !  ’  He  could  not  see  her  face ;  her 
hand  covered  it. 

‘  I  will  think  of  this,’  she  said.  ‘  Go  now.  Send  me 
Carwood :  I  am  mortally  tired.’  Carwood  was  her  bed- 
chamberwoman. 

There  was  a  riot  on  the  night  following  the  proclama¬ 
tion  of  King  Henry,  begun  by  some  foaming  fool  in  the 
Luckenbooths.  Men  caught  him  with  a  candle  in  his 
hand,  burning  straw  against  a  shop  door.  ‘  What  are  ye 
for?  What  are  ye  for?’  they  cried  at  him,  and  up  he 
jumped  with  the  fired  wisp  in  his  hand,  and  laughed, 
calling  out,  ‘  I  am  the  muckle  devil !  Come  for  the  popish 
King !  ’  The  words  fired  more  than  the  brand,  for  people 
ran  hither  and  thither  carrying  their  fierce  relish,  feeding 
each  other.  The  howling  and  tussling  of  men  and  women 
alike  raged  in  and  out  of  the  wynds.  It  was  noticed  that 
nearly  all  the  women  took  the  Queen’s  part,  and  fought 
against  the  men  —  a  thing  seldom  seen  in  Edinburgh.  In 
a  desultory  way,  with  one  or  two  bad  outbreaks,  of  which 
the  worst  was  in  the  Grassmarket,  where  they  stoned  a 
man  and  a  girl  to  death,  it  lasted  all  night.  The  Lord 
Lyon  had  his  windows  broken.  Mr.  Knox  quelled  the 
infuriates  of  the  High  Street. 

This  was  on  the  night  of  July  28th,  very  hot  weather. 
On  the  morning  of  the  30th  she  was  married  in  her  black 
weeds  — for  so  she  chose  it,  saying  that  she  had  been  married 
already  in  colour,  and  as  her  lord  was  possessed  of  the 
living,  so  now  he  should  own  the  dead  part  of  her.  She 
heard  mass  alone,  for  the  Prince  would  not  go  to  that 


CH.  XII 


EPITHALAMIUM 


187 


again ;  but  the  Earl  of  Atholl  stood  by  her,  while  Lennox 
waited  in  the  antechapel  with  his  son.  Mass  over,  the 
words  were  spoken,  rings  put  on.  He  had  one  and  she 
three.  They  knelt  side  by  side  and  heard  the  prayers  ; 
she  bowed  herself  to  the  pavement,  but  he  was  very  stiff. 
They  rose;  he  gave  her  a  kiss.  When  her  women  came 
about  her  he  went  away  to  her  cabinet  and  waited  for  her 
there,  quiet  and  self-possessed,  not  answering  any  of  his 
father’s  speeches. 

Presently  they  bring  him  in  the  Queen,  with  coaxings 
and  entreaties. 

‘  Now,  madam,  now  !  Do  off  your  blacks.  Come,  never 
refuse  us  !  ’ 

She  laughed  and  shook  her  head,  looking  sidelong  at 
her  husband. 

‘  Yes,  yes,’  they  cry,  ‘  we  will  ask  the  King,  madam, 
since  you  are  so  perverse.  Sir,  give  us  leave.’ 

‘  Ay,  ay,  ladies,  unpin  her,’  he  says. 

Mary  Sempill  cried,  ‘Come,  my  ladies!  Come,  sirs! 
Help  her  shed  her  weeds.’  She  took  out  a  shoulder-pin, 
and  the  black  shroud  fell  away  from  her  bosom.  Mary 
Fleming  let  loose  her  arms ;  Mary  Seton,  kneeling,  was 
busy  about  her  waist ;  Mary  Beaton  flacked  off  the  great 
hood.  Atholl,  Livingstone,  Lennox,  all  came  about  her, 
spoiling  her  of  her  old  defences.  When  the  black  was  all 
slipped  off,  she  stood  displayed  in  figured  ivory  damask, 
with  a  bashful,  rosy,  hopeful  face.  Atholl  took  a  hand, 
Lennox  the  other. 

‘By  your  leave,  sweet  madam.’  They  led  her  to  the 
young  man. 

‘  She  is  yours,  sir,  by  her  own  free  will.  God  bless  tk') 
mating !  ’ 

Then,  when  they  had  all  gone  tumbling  out  of  the 
room,  and  you  could  have  heard  their  laughter  in  the 
passages,  she  stood  before  him  with  her  hands  clasped. 
‘  Yes,  my  lord,  I  am  here.  Use  me  well.’ 

He  gave  a  toss  of  the  head ;  laughed  aloud  as  he  took 
her. 

‘Ay,  my  Mary,  I  have  thee  now  !  ’ 

He  held  her  close,  looking  keenly  into  her  hazel  eyes. 


1 88 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  I 


He  kissed  her  mouth  and  neck,  held  up  his  head,  and 
cheered  like  a  hunter.  ‘  The  mort  o’  the  deer  !  The  mort 
o’  the  deer!  ’Ware  hounds,  ’ware!  Let  the  chief  take 
assay.’ 

The  head  of  the  Hamiltons,  the  head  of  the  Campbells, 
the  head  of  the  Leslies,  were  all  in  Argyll  with  the  Earl  of 
Moray.  Mr.  Knox  was  with  his  young  wife  ;  Mr.  Randolph 
kept  his  lodging ;  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  was  at  sea,  beating 
up  north  ;  and  my  Lord  Gordon,  new  released  from  prison, 
was  with  his  mother  and  handsome  sister  Jean.  None  of 
these  were  at  the  marriage,  nor  bidden  to  the  marriage 
supper.  But  there  came  a  decent  man,  Mr.  George 
Buchanan,  affording  himself  an  epithalamy,  and  received 
in  recompense  the  Queen’s  and  King’s  picture  set  in 
brilliants.  This  did  not  prevent  him  from  casting  up  his 
hands  in  private  before  Mr.  Knox.  The  great  elder 
watched  him  grimly. 

‘  So  the  wilful  lass  has  got  her  master  !  And  a  pranking 
rider  for  a  bitter  jade !  Man,  George,’  he  said,  looking 
critically  through  him,  ‘in  my  opinion  you  are  a  thin, 
truckling  body.’ 


END  OF  MAIDS’  ADVENTURE 


BOOK  THE  SECOND 


MEN’S  BUSINESS 


CHAPTER  I 

OPINIONS  OF  FRENCH  PARIS  UPON  SOME  LATE  EVENTS 

Nicholas  the  lacquey,  whom  they  call  ‘French  Paris/ 
can  neither  read  nor  write,  nor  cipher  save  with  notches  in 
a  wand ;  but  he  has  travelled  much,  and  in  shrewd  com¬ 
pany  ;  and  has  seen  things  — -  whatever  men  may  do  —  of 
interest  moral  and  otherwise.  And  whether  he  work  his 
sum  by  aid  of  his  not  over-orderly  notches,  or  upon  his 
not  over-scrupulous  fingers,  the  dog  can  infer  ;  he  will  get 
the  quotient  just,  and  present  it  you  in  divers  tongues, 
with  divers  analogies  drawn  from  his  knowledge  of  affairs  : 
France,  England,  the  Low  Countries,  Upper  Italy,  the 
Debateable  Land  —  from  one,  any,  or  all,  French  Paris  can 
pick  his  case  in  point.  Therefore,  his  thoughts  upon 
events  in  Scotland,  both  those  which  led  to  his  coming 
thither  in  the  train  of  my  Lord  Bothwell,  his  master,  and 
those  which  followed  hard  upon  it,  should  be  worth  having, 
if  by  means  of  a  joke  and  a  crown-piece  one  could  get 
at  them. 

You  may  see  the  man,  if  you  will,  lounging  any  after¬ 
noon  away  with  his  fellows  on  the  cawsey — by  the  Market 
Cross,  in  the  parvise  of  Saint  Giles’s,  by  the  big  house  at 
the  head  of  Peebles  Wynd  (‘late  my  Lord  of  Moray’s,’  he 
will  tell  you  with  a  wink),  or,  best  of  all,  in  the  forecourt 
of  Holyrood  —  holding  his  master’s  cloak  upon  his  arm. 
He  is  to  be  known  at  once  by  the  clove  carnation  or  sprig 
of  rosemary  in  his  mouth,  and  by  his  way  of  looking 
Scotchwomen  in  their  faces  with  that  mixture  of  im¬ 
pudence  and  naivety  which  his  nation  lends  her  sons. 

191 


192 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


Being  whose  son  he  is,  he  will  be  a  smooth-chinned,  lithe 
young  man,  passably  vicious,  and  pale  with  it ;  grey  in  the 
eye,  dressed  finely  in  a  good  shirt,  good  jacket  and 
breeches.  But  for  certain  these  two  last  will  not  meet; 
the  snowy  lawn  will  force  itself  between,  and,  like  a  vow 
of  continence,  sunder  two  loves.  Paris  will  be  tender  of 
his  waist.  He  will  look  at  all  women  as  they  pass,  not 
with  reverence  (as  if  they  were  a  holier  kind  of  flesh),  but 
rather,  like  his  namesake,  as  if  he  held  the  apple  weighing 
in  his  hand.  Seems  to  have  no  eye  for  men  —  will  tell 
you,  if  you  ask  him  of  them,  that  there  are  none  in  Scot¬ 
land  but  his  master  and  Mr.  Knox;  and  yet  can  judge 
them  quicker  than  any  one.  It  was  he  who  said  of  the 
King,  having  seen  him  but  once,  after  supper,  at  Stirling: 
‘  This  young  man  fuddles  himself  to  brave  out  his  failure. 
He  is  frigid  —  wants  a  sex.’  And  of  the  Queen,  on  the 
same  short  acquaintance,  but  helped  by  hearsay  :  ‘  She 
had  been  so  long  the  pet  of  women  that  she  thought 
herself  safe  with  any  man.  But  now  she  knows  that  it 
takes  more  than  a  cod-piece  to  make  a  man.  Trust  Paris.’ 
Trust  Paris  !  A  crown  will  purchase  the  rogue,  and  yet 
he  has  a  kind  of  faithfulness.  He  will  endure  enormously 
for  his  master’s  sake,  shun  no  fatigues,  wince  at  no  pain, 
consider  no  shame  —  to  be  sure,  he  has  none  —  blink  at  few 
perils.  Talk  to  him,  having  slipped  in  your  crown,  he  will 
be  frank.  He  will  tell  you  of  his  master. 

A  quick  word  of  thanks,  whistled  off  into  the  air,  will 
introduce  him  to  the  broad  piece.  He  will  give  it  a  flick 
in  the  air,  catch  it  as  it  comes  down,  rattle  it  in  his 
hollowed  palm,  with  a  grin  into  your  face.  ‘  This  is  the 
upright  servant,  this  pretty  knave,’  he  will  say  of  his  coin. 
‘For,  look  you,  sir,  this  white-faced,  thin  courtier  is  the 
one  in  all  the  world  whom  you  need  not  buy  for  more 
than  his  value.  God  of  Gods,  if  my  master  thought  fully 
of  it  he  would  be  just  such  another.  Because  it  is  as  plain 
as  a  monk’s  lullaby  that,  if  you  need  not  give  more  for 
him  than  he  is  worth,  you  cannot  give  less  !  ’ 

His  master,  you  have  been  told,  is  the  great  Earl  of 
Bothwell,  now  Lord  Admiral  of  Scotland,  Lieutenant- 
General  of  the  East,  West,  and  Middle  Marches,  and  right 


CH.  I 


OPINIONS  OF  FRENCH  PARIS 


193 


hand  of  the  Queen’s  Majesty.  How  is  the  story  of  so  high 
a  man  involved  in  your  crown-piece  ?  Why,  thus. 

French  Paris  displays  the  coin.  ‘  Do  you  see  these  two 
children’s  faces,  these  sharp  and  tender  chins,  these  slim 
necks,  these  perching  crowns  ?  What  says  the  circumscrip¬ 
tion  ?  Maria  et  Henricus  D.  G.  Scotorum  Regina 
et  Rex.  How  !  the  mare  before  the  sire  ?  You  have 
touched,  sir  !  ’  For  observe,  Paris’  master  came  into  Scot¬ 
land,  a  pardoned  rebel,  because  this  legend  at  first  had  run 
Henricus  et  Maria  Rex  et  Regina,  and  there  was 
outcry  raised,  flat  rebellion.  And  so  surely,  says  Paris,  as 
he  had  come,  and  been  received,  him  with  his  friends,  and 
had  given  that  quick  shake  of  the  head  (which  so  well 
becomes  him),  and  lifted  his  war-shout  of  ‘  Hoo  !  hoo  !  A 
Hepburn,  hoo  !  ’  —  so  surely  they  struck  a  new  coinage,  at 
this  very  Christmas  past  —  and  here  we  are  over  Candlemas 
—  with  Maria  et  Henricus,  and  the  mare  before  the 
sire.  ‘  That  is  how  my  master  came  back  to  Scotland,  sir, 
and  here  upon  the  face  of  your  bounty  you  see  the  prentices. 
But  there  will  be  a  more  abundant  harvest,  if  I  mistake 
not  the  husbandman.’ 

‘That  is  a  droll  reflection  for  me,’  he  will  add,  ‘who 
have  been  with  my  master  as  near  beggary  as  a  swan  in 
the  winter,  and  nearer  to  death  than  the  Devil  can  have 
understood.  I  have  served  him  here  and  there  for  many 
years  —  Flanders,  Brabant,  Gueldres,  Picardy,  Savoy,  Eng¬ 
land.  Do  you  happen  to  know  the  port  of  Yarmouth  ? 
They  can  drink  in  Yarmouth.  I  have  hidden  with  him  in 
the  hills  of  this  country  :  that  was  when  he  had  broken  out 
of  prison  in  this  town,  and  before  he  hanged  Pringle  with 
his  own  hands.  I  have  skulked  there,  I  say,  until  the  fog 
rotted  my  bones.  I  have  sailed  the  seas  in  roaring  weather, 
and  upon  my  word,  sir,  have  had  experiences  enough  to 
make  the  fortune  of  a  preacher.  There  was  a  pirate  of 
Brill  in  our  company,  Oudekirk  by  name,  who  denied  the 
existence  of  God  in  a  tempest,  and  perished  by  a  thunder¬ 
bolt.  Pam  !  It  clove  him.  “  There  is  no  God  !”  cried  he, 
and  with  the  last  word  there  was  a  blare  of  white  light,  a 
crackling,  hissing,  tearing  noise,  a  crash ;  and  when  we 
looked  at  Oudekirk  one  side  of  him  was  coal-black  from 


N 


194 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


the  hair  to  the  midriff,  and  his  jaws  clamped  together  !  But 
I  could  not  tell  you  all  —  some  is  not  very  convenient,  I 
must  allow. 

‘We  were  at  Lille  when  the  Queen’s  messenger  —  the 
little  smutty-eyed  Brabanter — found  us.  He  brought  two 
letters :  the  Queen’s  very  short,  a  stiff  letter  of  recall,  pro¬ 
mising  pardon  “as  you  behave  yourself  towards  us.”  The 
other  was  from  that  large  Italian,  who  sprawls  where  he 
ought  not,  in  his  own  tongue ;  as  much  as  may  be,  like 
this  :  — 

‘  “  Most  serene,  cultivable  lord,  it  is  very  certain  that  if 
you  come  to  this  country  you  will  be  well  received ;  the 
more  so,  seeing  that  certain  of  your  unfriends  (he  meant 
Monsieur  de  Moray)  have  been  treated  lately  as  they  well 
deserve.  The  Queen  weds  Prince  Henry  Stuart,  of  whom 
I  will  only  write  that  I  wish  he  were  older  and  more 
resembled  your  magnificence.” 

‘  All  Italians  lie,  sir ;  yet  so  it  is  that  their  lies  always 
please  you.  You  may  be  sure  my  master  needed  no  more 
encouragement  to  make  his  preparation  of  travel.  It  was 
soon  after  this  that  he  showed  me  a  glove  he  had,  and  an 
old  letter  of  the  Queen’s.  We  were  in  his  bedchamber,  he 
in  his  bed.  He  has  many  such  pledges,  many  and  many, 
but  he  was  sure  of  this  glove  because  it  was  stiff  in  two 
fingers.  When  he  told  me  that  he  intended  for  Scotland 
and  must  take  the  glove  with  him,  I  said,  “  Master,  be 
careful  what  you  are  about.  It  is  certain  that  the  Queen 
will  know  her  own  glove  again,  and  should  this  prove  the 
wrong  one  it  will  be  worse  for  you  than  not  to  show  it 
at  all.” 

‘  “  Pooh,  man,”  says  he,  “  the  glove  is  right  enough. 
There  are  no  others  stiff  from  a  wetting.  But  look  and 
see.  Let’s  be  sure.” 

‘  It  was  true  there  were  no  others  quite  so  stiff  in  the 
fingers.  Tears  had  done  it,  the  letter  said  :  but  who  knows, 
with  women  ?  ’  French  Paris,  here,  would  give  a  hoist  to 
his  breeches. 

‘  In  September  last  we  made  land,  after  a  chase  in 
furious  weather.  An  English  ship  sighted  us  off  Holy 
Island:  we  ran  near  to  be  aground  on  that  pious  territory, 


CH.  I 


OPINIONS  OF  FRENCH  PARIS 


195 


but  our  Lady  or  Saint  Denis,  or  a  holy  partnership  between 
them,  saved  us.  They  sent  out  a  long  boat  to  head  us 
into  shoal  water ;  we  slipped  in  between.  My  master  had 
the  helm  and  rammed  it  down  with  his  heel;  we  came 
about  to  the  wind,  we  flew,  with  the  water  hissing  along 
the  gunwale.  We  saw  them  in  the  breakers  as  we  gained 
the  deeps.  “  There  goes  some  beef  into  the  pickle-tub  !  ” 
cried  he,  and  stood  up  and  hailed  them  with  mockery. 
“  Sooner  you  than  me,  ye  drowning  swine !  ”  he  roars 
against  the  tempest.  Such  a  man  is  my  master. 

‘  We  found  anchorage  at  Eyemouth,  and  pricked  up  the 
coast-road  to  this  place.  The  war  —  if  you  can  call  it  war, 
which  was  a  chasing  of  rats  in  a  rickyard  —  was  as  good  as 
over,  but  by  no  means  the  cause  of  war.  The  Queen  was 
home  from  the  field,  where  they  tell  me  she  had  shown  the 
most  intrepid  front  of  any  of  her  company.  Not  much  to 
say,  perhaps.  Yet  remember  that  she  had  Monsieur  de 
Huntly  with  her,  that  had  been  Gordon  —  a  fine  stark  man, 
like  a  hawk,  whom  she  had  set  free  from  prison  and  re¬ 
stored  to  his  Earldom  before  the  rebellion  broke  out ;  and 
he  is  passably  courageous.  But  it  was  a  valet  of  his, 
Forbes,  “red  Sandy  Forbes,”  they  call  him,  who  told  me 
that  he  had  never  in  his  life  seen  anything  like  the  Queen 
of  Scots  upon  that  hunting  of  outlaws.  Think  of  this, 
dear  sir !  The  King  in  a  gilt  corslet,  casque  of  feathers, 
red  cloak  and  all,  greatly  attended  by  his  Englishmen  — 
his  pavilion,  his  bed,  his  cooks  and  scullions  ;  his  pampered, 
prying  boys,  his  little  Forrest,  his  little  Ross,  his  Jack  and 
his  Dick ;  with  that  greyhead,  bowing,  soft-handed  cousin 
of  his,  Monsieur  Archibald,  for  secretary  —  hey  ?  Very 
good  :  you  picture  the  young  man  And  she !  ’  French 
Paris  threatens  you  with  one  finger,  presented  like  a  pistol 
at  your  eyes.  ‘  She  had  one  lady  of  company,  upon  my 
soul,  one  only,  the  fair  Seton ;  that  one  and  no  other  with 
her  in  a  camp  full  of  half-naked,  cannibal  men  —  for  what 
else  are  they,  these  Scots  ?  She  wore  breastplate  and 
gorget  of  leather,  a  leather  cap  for  her  head,  a  short 
red  petticoat,  the  boots  of  a  man.  As  for  her  hair,  it 
streamed  behind  her  like  a  pennon  in  the  wind.  It  was 
hell’s  weather,  said  Sandy  Forbes ;  rain  and  gusty  wind, 


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BK.  II 


freshening  now  and  again  to  tempest ;  there  were  quags  to 
be  crossed,  torrents  to  be  forded ;  the  rain  drove  like  sleet 
across  the  hills.  Well,  she  throve  upon  it,  her  eyes  like 
stars.  There  was  no  tarrying  because  of  her ;  she  raced 
like  a  coursing  dog,  and  nearly  caught  the  Bastard  of 
Scotland.  He  was  the  root  of  all  mischance,  as  always  in 
a  kingdom ;  for  a  bastard,  do  you  see  ?  means  fire  some¬ 
where.  Have  you  ever  heard  tell  of  my  Lord  Don  John 
of  Austria  ?  Ah,  if  we  are  to  talk  of  fire,  look  out  for  him. 

*  It  was  in  the  flats  below  Stirling  that  she  felt  the  scent 
hot  in  her  face.  The  Bastard  had  had  six  hours’  start ;  but 
if  spurring  could  have  brought  horses  to  face  that  weather, 
she  had  had  him  in  jail  at  this  hour,  or  in  Purgatory. 
“Half  my  kingdom,”  cries  she,  “sooner  than  lose  him 
now !  ”  But  he  got  clear  away,  he  and  Monsieur  le  Due, 
and  the  old  Earl  of  Argyll,  and  Milord  Rothes  and  the 
rest  of  them.  They  crossed  the  March  into  England,  and 
she  dared  not  follow  them  against  advice.  My  master, 
when  he  came,  confirmed  it :  he  would  not  have  her 
venture,  knowing  England  as  well  as  he  did ;  and  I  need 
not  tell  you,  sir,  that  —  for  that  once  —  he  had  the  support 
of  the  King.  He  was  out  of  breath,  that  King !  But,  of 
course  !  If  you  drink  to  get  courage  you  must  pay  for  it. 
Your  wind  goes,  and  then  where  is  your  courage  ?  In  the 
bottle,  in  the  bottle  !  You  drink  again  —  and  so  you  go  the 
vicious  round.’  French  Paris  flips  his  finger  and  thumb, 
extinguishing  the  King  of  Scots.  ‘  The  King,  sir  ?  Pouf  ! 
Perished,  gone  out,  snuffered  out,  finished,  done  with  — 
adieu  !  ’  He  kisses  his  hand  to  the  sky.  This  is  treason  : 
let  us  shift  our  ground. 

‘  I  did  not  see  my  master’s  reception,  down  there  in  the 
palace :  that  was  not  for  a  lacquey.  Very  fine,  very 
curious,  knowing  what  I  know.  They  ^aet  him  in  the 
hall,  a  number  of  the  lords  —  none  too  friefl^ly  as  yet,  but 
each  waiting  on  the  other  to  get  a  line :  my  Lord  of 
Atholl,  a  grave,  honest  man,  my  Lord  of  Ruthven,  pallid, 
mad  and  struggling  with  his  madness,  my  Lord  of  Lindsay, 
who  ought  to  be  a  hackbutter,  or  a  drawer  in  a  tavern ; 
there  were  many  others,  men  of  no  account.  My  master 
entered  on  the  arm  of  the  new  Earl  of  Huntly,  just 


CH.  I 


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197 


restored,  the  fine  young  man,  to  the  honours  of  his  late 
father.  In  this  country,  you  must  know,  a  certain  number 
of  the  lords  are  always  in  rebellion  against  the  King.  He 
imprisons,  not  executes,  them ;  for  he  knows  very  well 
that  before  long  another  faction  will  be  out  against  him ; 
and  then  it  is  very  convenient  to  release  the  doers  in  the 
former.  For  by  that  act  of  grace  you  convert  them  into 
friends,  who  will  beat  your  new  foes  for  you.  They  in 
their  turn  go  to  prison.  You  know  the  fate  of  M.  de 
Huntly’s  father,  for  instance  -  -  how  he  rebelled  and  died, 
and  was  dug  out  of  the  grave  that  they  might  spit  upon 
his  old  body  ?  The  Bastard’s  doing,  but  the  Queen 
allowed  it.  And  now,  here  is  the  Bastard  hiding  in  the 
rocks,  and  old  Huntly’s  son  hunting  him  high  and  low. 
Drole  de  pays  !  But,  I  was  about  to  tell  you,  rebels  though 
we  have  been,  they  received  us  well  —  crowded  about  us  — 
clapped  our  shoulders  —  cheered,  laughed,  talked  all  at 
once.  My  master  was  nearly  off  his  feet  as  they  bore  him 
down  the  hall  towards  the  fire.  Now,  there  by  the  fire, 
warming  himself,  stood  a  nobleman,  very  broad  in  the 
back,  very  pursy,  with  short-fingered,  fat  hands,  and  well- 
cushioned  little  eyes  in  his  face.  So  soon  as  he  saw  us 
coming  he  grew  red  and  walked  away. 

‘  “  Ho,  ho,  my  Lord  of  Morton,  whither  away  so  fast  ?  ” 
cried  out  my  master. 

‘  And  my  Lord  of  Livingstone  said  :  “  To  sit  on  the 
Great  Seal,  lest  Davy  get  it  from  him  ” ;  and  they  all 
burst  out  laughing  like  a  pack  of  boys.  I  suppose  he  is 
still  sitting  close,  for  he  has  not  been  seen  this  long 
time. 

‘  We  sent  up  our  names  and  waited  —  but  we  waited  an 
hour!  Then  came  my  Lord  of  Traquair  and  took  up  my 
master  alone.  He  had  his  glove  and  letter  with  him,  I 
knew.  He  was  determined  to  risk  them. 

‘  The  Queen  had  nobody  with  her ;  and  he  told  me  that 
the  first  thing  she  said  to  him  was  this :  —  “  My  lord,  you 
have  things  of  mine  which  I  need.  Will  you  not  give  them 
to  me  ?  ” 

‘  He  took  them  out  of  his  bosom  —  if  you  know  him  you 
will  see  his  twinkling  eyes,  never  off  her  —  and  held  them 


198  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  ii 

up.  “They  have  been  well  cared  for,  madam.  I  trust 
that  your  Majesty  will  be  as  gentle  with  them.” 

‘  “  They  are  safe  with  me,”  says  the  Queen.  So  then, 
after  a  fine  reverence,  he  gave  them  up,  and  she  thanked 
him,  and  put  them  in  her  bosom ;  and  I  would  give  forty 
crowns  to  know  where  they  are  now.  I  know  where  they 
will  be  before  long. 

‘  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that?  It  shows  you,  first, 
that  he  was  right  and  I  wrong ;  for  she  never  looked  at 
the  thing,  and  any  woman’s  glove  would  have  done,  with 
a  little  sea-water  on  the  fingers.  My  master,  let  me  tell 
you,  is  a  wise  man,  even  at  his  wildest.  He  did  more 
good  to  himself  by  that  little  act  than  by  any  foolish  play 
of  the  constant  lover.  He  showed  her  that  she  might  trust 
him.  True.  But  much  more  than  that,  he  showed  her 
that  he  did  not  need  her  tokens  ;  and  that  was  the  master¬ 
stroke. 

‘  The  same  line  he  has  followed  ever  since  —  he  alone, 
like  the  singling  hound  in  a  pack.  He  has  held  her  at 
arm’s  length.  She  has  trusted  him,  and  shown  it ;  he  has 
served  her  well,  but  at  arm’s  length.  That  Italian  fiddler, 
rolling  about  in  her  chamber,  too  much  aware  of  his  value, 
takes  another  way.  Lord  forgive  him  !  he  is  beginning  to 
play  the  patron.  That  can  only  lead  him  to  one  place,  in 
my  opinion.  Hated !  that  is  a  thin  word  to  use  in  his 
respect.  He  makes  the  lords  sick  with  fear  and  loathing. 
They  see  a  toad  in  the  Queen’s  lap,  as  in  the  nursery  tale, 
and  no  one  dare  touch  the  warty  thing,  to  dash  it  to  the 
wall.  My  master  would  dare,  for  sure ;  but  he  does  not 
choose.  For  all  that,  he  says  that  Monsieur  David  is 
a  fool. 

*  It  is  when  I  am  trussing  him  in  the  mornings,  kneeling 
before  him,  that  he  speaks  his  mind  most  freely.  He  is 
like  that — you  must  be  beneath  his  notice  to  get  his 
familiarity.  Do  you  know  the  course  he  takes  here  in  this 
world  of  rats  and  women  ?  To  laugh,  and  laugh,  and  laugh 
again:  voila  !  He  varies  his  derision,  of  course.  He  will 
not  rally  the  King  or  put  him  to  shame,  but  listens,  rather, 
and  watches,  and  nods  his  head  at  his  prancings,  and  says, 
“  Ha,  a  fine  bold  game,  now !  ”  ;  or,  if  he  is  appealed  to 


CH.  I 


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199 


directly,  will  ask,  “ Sir,  what  am  I  to  say  to  you?  the  same 
as  Brutus  said  to  Caesar  ?  ”  “  And  what  said  Brutus  ?  ” 

cries  the  King.  “Why,  sir,”  replies  my  master,  “he  said, 
Sooner  you  than  me,  Caesar.”  That  is  his  favourite  adage. 
And  so  he  plays  with  the  King,  his  eyes  twinkling  and  his 
mouth  broad,  but  no  teeth  showing.  He  shows  neither  his 
teeth  nor  his  hand.  He  is  a  good  card-player  ;  and  so  he 
should  be,  who  has  been  at  the  table  with  the  Queen-Mother 
Catherine,  daughter  of  Mischief  and  the  Apothecary. 

‘  The  King  hates  my  master  without  understanding ; 
the  Queen  leans  on  him  to  gain  understanding ;  but  she 
has  not  gained  it  yet.  You  may  trust  my  lord  for  that. 
Did  you  hear  of  the  mass  on  Candlemas  Day,  a  week  past 
to-day  ?  How  she  thought  this  a  fine  occasion  to  restore 
the  ancient  use :  her  enemies  beaten  over  the  border,  all 
her  friends  should  carry  tapers,  so  that  the  Queen  of 
Heaven  might  be  purified  again  of  her  spotless  act  ?  She 
required  it  personally  of  all  the  lords,  one  by  one,  herself 
beseeching  them  with  soft  eyes  and  motions  of  the  hands 
hard  to  be  denied.  Moreover,  she  is  to  have  need  of 
purification  herself  if  all  goes  well.  For  she  is  .  .  .  but 
you  can  judge  for  yourself.  Many  promised  her  on  whom 
she  had  not  counted ;  my  master,  on  whom  she  did  count, 
refused  her  point-blank.  The  strangest  part  of  the  business 
is,  however,  that  his  credit  is  higher  now  than  it  was  before. 
So  much  so  that  she  has  made  him  a  fine  marriage. 
Monsieur  de  Huntly’s  sister  is  the  lady ;  I  have  seen  her, 
but  reserve  my  judgment.  I  think  that  she  will  not  like 
me —  I  feel  it  in  the  ridges  of  my  ears,  a  very  sensitive  part 
with  me.  She  was  in  the  Queen’s  circle  one  day  — the  day 
on  which  I  saw  her  —  a  statue  of  a  woman,  upon  whom  the 
Queen  cast  the  eyes  of  that  lover  who  goes  to  church  to 
view  his  mistress  afar  off,  and  has  no  regard  for  any  but 
her,  and  waits  and  hopes,  and  counts  every  little  turn  of 
her  head  —  as  patient  as  a  watching  dog.  Curious  !  curious 
government  of  women!  Hey — -pardon!  The  Council  is 
up.  I  must  be  forward.  Sir,  I  thank  you,  and  humbly 
salute  you.’ 

French  Paris  pushes  through  the  huddle  of  servants,  the 
rosemary  sprig  in  his  mouth. 


200 


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BK.  II 


My  Lord  Admiral  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  comes  out  one 
of  the  first,  between  the  Lords  Seton  and  Caithness.  He 
talks  fast,  you  notice,  with  a  good  deal  of  wrist  and  finger- 
work,  acknowledges  no  salutations  though  he  is  offered 
many.  My  Lord  Seton  takes  them  all  upon  himself, 
misses  not  one.  The  Earl  of  Caithness  is  an  oldish  man, 
rather  hard  of  hearing.  Heeding  nobody,  speaking  as  he 
feels,  laughing  at  his  own  jokes,  capping  one  with  another, 
the  burly  admiral  stands  barehead  in  the  raw  drizzle, 
swinging  his  feathered  hat  in  his  hand.  There  seems 
much  to  say,  if  he  could  only  remember  it,  and  no  hurry. 
Horses  are  brought  up,  gentlemen  mount  by  the  post  and 
spur  away.  Three  ushers  come  running,  waving  their 
wands.  ‘  Sirs,  the  King  !  ’  The  crowd  gathers  ;  the  Lord 
Admiral  continues  his  conversation. 

The  King  comes  out,  taller  by  a  head  than  most, 
exceedingly  magnificent,  light-haired,  hot  in  the  face. 
Hats  and  bonnets  are  doffed,  but  in  silence.  The  great 
grey  stallion  with  red  trappings  is  his ;  and  he  can  hold  it 
though  two  grooms  cannot  well.  He  stands  for  a  while, 
pulling  on  his  gauntlet,  scowling  and  screwing  his  mouth 
as  he  tussles  with  it.  But  the  scowls,  you  gather,  are  less 
for  the  glove  than  for  a  calm-eyed,  fleshy,  pink  man  with 
a  light  red  beard,  who  has  emerged  but  just  now  ;  whose 
furred  cloak  is  over-fringed,  whose  bonnet  sags  too  much 
over  one  eye,  the  jewel  in  it  too  broad.  This  is  Signior 
Davy,  too  cool  and  too  much  master  to  please  one  who  is 
hot  and  not  master  of  himself.  You  can  see  the  King’s 
mood  grow  furious  to  the  point  of  unreason,  while  my 
Lord  Bothwell  continues  his  tales,  and  the  Italian,  secure 
in  a  crowd,  seems  to  be  daring  an  attack. 

The  King  is  mounted,  the  King  is  away.  The  crowd 
drives  back  to  right  and  left.  He  goes  swinging  down  the 
steep  street,  his  gentlemen  after  him.  The  Earl  of  Bothwell 
calls  out,  ‘  Paris,  my  cloak.’ 

Paris  turns  the  rosemary  sprig.  ‘  Le  voici,  monseigneur.’ 

He  walks  away  to  his  lodging  like  any  plain  burgess  of 
the  town,  and  Paris  trips  jauntily  after  him,  looking  Scotch¬ 
women  in  the  face. 


CHAPTER  II 

GRIEFS  AND  CONSOLATIONS  OF  ADONIS 

In  these  dark  February  days  the  King  was  prone  to  regard 
his  troubles  as  the  consequence,  and  not  the  verification,  of 
certain  words  spoken  by  Archie  Douglas  on  the  braeside 
by  Falkirk  —  that  being  a  trick  of  the  unreasonable,  to  date 
their  misfortunes  from  the  time  when  they  first  find  them 
out.  And  yet  it  was  an  odd  thing  that  Archie  should  have 
spoken  in  his  private  ear  shortly  after  Michaelmas,  and 
that  here  was  Candlemas  come  and  gone,  with  everything 
turning  to  prove  Archie  right.  Now,  which  of  the  three 
was  the  grey-polled  youth  — prophet,  philosopher,  or  bird 
of  boding? 

Consider  his  Majesty’s  affairs  in  order.  The  Oueen, 
before  marriage  and  at  the  time  of  it,  had  been  as~meek 
as  a  girl  newly  parted  from  her  mother,  newly  launched 
from  that  familiar  shore  to  be  seethed  in  the  deep,  secret 
waters  of  matrimony.  Something  of  that  exquisite  docility 
he  had  discerned  when  he  experienced,  for  instance,  the 
prerogatives  of  a  man.  One  name  before  another  is  a 
very  small  matter ;  but  it  had  given  him  a  magnanimous 
thrill  to  read  Henricus  et  Maria  upon  the  white  money, 
and  to  feel  the  confidence  that  Henricus  et  Maria,  in 
very  fact,  it  was  now  and  was  to  be.  Little  things  of  the 
sort  swelled  his  comfort  up  :  the  style  royal,  the  chief  seat, 
the  gravity  of  the  Council  (attendant  upon  his),  the  awe  of 
the  mob,  the  Italian’s  punctilio,  his  father’s  unfeigned 
reverence.  Even  Mr.  Randolph’s  remarked  abstention  was 
flattering,  for  it  must  have  cost  the  ambassador  more  to 

201 


202 


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BK.  II 


ignore  the  King  than  the  King  could  ever  have  to  pay  for 
the  slight.  Now,  a  man  needs  time  to  get  the  flavours  of 
such  toothsome  tribute ;  he  must  roll  it  on  his  tongue,  dally 
over  it  with  his  intimates.  Little  Forrest,  the  chamber- 
child,  could  have  told  a  thing  or  two :  how  the  King  used 
to  wear  his  gold  circlet  in  private,  and  walk  the  room  in  his 
crimson  mantle.  Antony  Standen  knew  something.  Yes, 
yes,  a  man  needs  time ;  and  such  time  was  denied  him  — 
and  (by  Heaven !)  denied  him  by  the  Queen  herself. 

By  the  Queen !  From  the  hour  when  she  heard  the 
news  from  Argyll,  that  the  rebels,  her  brother  at  their 
head,  had  called  out  the  clans  of  the  west  —  Campbells, 
Leslies,  Hamiltons  —  against  her  authority,  she  was  a 
creature  whom  her  King  had  never  conceived  of.  He  was 
told  by  Archie  Douglas  then,  and  partly  believed,  that  she 
was  slighting  him ;  but  the  plain  truth  is,  of  course,  that 
all  her  keen  love  for  him  was  running  now  in  a  narrow 
channel  —  that  of  strenuous  loyalty  to  the  young  man  she 
had  chosen  to  set  beside  her.  These  hounds  to  deny  his 
kingly  right !  Let  them  learn  then  what  a  King  he  was, 
for  what  a  King  she  held  him  !  She  strained  every  nerve, 
put  edge  to  every  wit  in  his  vindication.  While  he  lay 
abed,  stretching,  dreaming  —  sometimes  of  her,  more  often 
of  her  love  for  him,  most  often  of  what  he  should  do 
when  he  was  fairly  roused :  ‘  Let  them  not  try  me  too  far, 
little  Forrest!  I  say,  they  had  best  not!’  etc.  —  at  these 
times  she  was  in  her  cabinet  with  the  Italian,  writing  to 
her  brother  of  France,  her  father  of  Rome,  her  uncles  and 
cousins  of  Lorraine,  promising,  wheedling,  threatening, 
imploring.  Or  she  was  in  audience,  say,  with  George 
Gordon,  winning  back  his  devotion  with  smiles  and  tender 
looks,  with  a  hand  to  the  chin,  or  two  clasping  her  knee  — 
with  all  the  girlish  wiles  she  knew  so  well  and  so  divinely 
used.  For  his  sake  —  that  slug-abed  —  she  dared  see 
Bothwell  again ;  and  greater  pride  hath  no  woman  than 
this,  to  brave  the  old  love  for  the  sake  of  the  new. 
Finally,  when  cajolery  and  bravado  had  done  their  best 
for  her,  she  sprang  starry-eyed  into  battle,  headed  her 
ragged  musters  in  a  short  petticoat,  and  dragged  him 
after  her  in  gilded  armour.  That  is  what  a  man  —  by  the 


CH.  II 


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203 


mass,  a  King  !  —  may  fairly  call  being  docked  of  his  time  to 
get  the  flavours. 

He  went  out  unwillingly  to  war,  with  sulky  English 
eyes  for  all  the  petty  detriments.  He  sniffed  at  her  array, 
her  redshanks  armed  with  bills,  her  Jeddart  bowmen, 
haggard  hillmen  from  Badenoch  and  Gowrie.  Where 
were  the  broad  pavilions,  the  camp-furniture,  the  pennons 
and  pensels,  the  siege-train,  the  led  horses,  the  Prince’s 
cloth  of  estate  ?  Was  he  to  huddle  with  reivers  under  a 
pent  of  green  boughs,  and  with  packed  cowdung  keep  the 
wind  from  his  anointed  person  ?  King  of  kings,  Ruler  of 
princes  !  was  she  to  do  the  like  ?  How  she  laughed,  tossed 
back  her  hair,  to  hear  him  ! 

‘  Hey,  dear  heart,  you  are  in  wild  Scotland,  where  all 
fare  alike.  O  King  of  Scots,  forget  your  smug  England, 
and  teach  me,  the  Queen,  to  laugh  at  stately  France! 
Battle,  my  prince,  battle  !  The  great  game  !  ’ 

She  galloped  down  the  line,  looking  back  for  him  to 
follow.  Line !  it  was  no  line,  but  a  jostling  horde  of 
market-drovers  clumped  upon  a  knowe.  There  were  no 
formation,  no  livery,  no  standard  —  unless  that  scarecrow 
scarf  were  one.  Why  should  he  follow  her  to  review  a 
pack  of  thieves  ? 

Hark,  hark,  how  the  rascals  cheered  her !  They  ran 
all  about  her,  tossing  up  their  bonnets  on  pikes.  They 
were  insulting  her. 

‘  By  God !  ’  he  cried  out,  ‘  who  was  to  teach  them 
behaviour  ?  Was  this  the  King’s  office  ?  ’ 

‘  It  is  the  Queen’s,  my  good  lord ;  she  will  teach  them,’ 
said  the  Italian  at  his  elbow.  ‘And  what  her  Majesty 
omits  the  enemy  will  teach  them,  at  his  own  charges.  I 
know  your  countrymen  by  now.  Manners  ?  Out  of  place 
in  the  field.  Courage  ?  They  have  never  wanted  for  that.’ 

The  King  grew  red,  as  he  tried  in  vain  to  stare  down 
this  confident  knave ;  then  turned  to  his  Archie  Douglas. 

‘  A  company  of  my  Lord  Essex’s  horse,’  he  said,  ‘  would 
drill  these  rabble  like  a  maggoty  cheese.’ 

Archie  excused  his  nation.  ‘  They  will  trot  the  haggs 
all  day,  sir,  on  a  crust  of  rye-bread,  and  engage  at  the 
close  for  a  skirl  of  the  pipes.  Hearken !  they  are  at  it 


204 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


now.  ’Tis  the  Gordons  coming  in.’  The  thin  youth  drew 
himself  up.  ‘  Eh,  sirs,  my  heart  warms  to  it !  ’  he  said, 
honestly  moved  by  an  honest  pride. 

But  the  King  sulked.  ‘  Filthy  work  !  Where  are  my 
people  ?  Ho,  you  !  my  cloak !  ’ 

‘  Ay,  there  comes  a  spit  o’  rain,’  said  Archie  Douglas, 
nosing  the  weather.  This  was  no  way  for  a  man  to  get  the 
flavours  of  kingship. 

In  the  chase  that  followed  —  forced  marches  on  Glasgow 
after  old  Chatelherault,  the  scouring  of  the  Forth  valley, 
the  view-halloo  at  Falkirk,  and  much  more  —  the  Queen 
had  to  leave  him  alone,  for  so  he  chose  it ;  and  there  was 
no  time  to  humour  him,  had  there  been  inclination.  But 
truly  there  was  none.  She  had  the  sting  of  weather  and 
the  scurry  in  her  blood ;  she  was  in  perfect  health,  great 
spirits,  loving  the  work.  Hunter’s  work!  the  happy 
oblivion  of  the  short  night’s  rest,  the  privations,  the  relish 
of  simple  fare,  the  spying  and  hoping,  the  searching  of 
hillsides  and  descents  into  sombre  valleys,  your  heart  in 
your  mouth ;  all  the  trick  and  veer  of  mountain  warfare, 
the  freedoms,  the  easy  talk,  the  laughing,  the  horseplay ; 
she  found  nothing  amiss,  kept  no  state,  and  never  felt  the 
lack  of  it.  The  Italian  and  his  letter-case,  Lethington 
and  his  dockets,  were  behind.  Atholl  watched  Edinburgh 
Castle  for  her,  Bothwell  was  coming  home ;  she  had  none 
with  her  but  Mary  Seton  for  countenance,  Carwood  for 
use,  one  page  (Adam  Gordon),  one  esquire  (Erskine),  and 
Father  Roche.  For  the  rest,  her  cousin  and  councillor 
and  open-air  comrade  was  George  Gordon,  late  in  bonds. 
So  sometimes  a  whole  day  would  pass  without  word  to 
the  King;  later,  as  at  Falkirk,  where  the  scent  had  been 
so  hot,  three  or  four  days ;  and  she  never  missed  him ! 

This  was  the  occasion  when  Archie  Douglas,  riding 
with  his  kinsman,  had  pointed  to  the  head  of  the  valley, 
saying,  ‘There  goes  a  man  in  good  company,  who  lately 
was  glad  of  any.’  The  King  scowled,  which  encouraged 
him.  ‘Ay,’  he  went  on  —  ‘  ay,  the  favour  of  the  prince  can 
lift  up  and  cast  down.  Who’d  ha’  thought,  sirs,  that  yon 
Geordie  Gordon  should  be  son  of  a  disgraced  old  body, 
that  must  be  dug  free  from  the  worms  before  he  could 


CH.  II 


GRIEFS  OF  ADONIS 


205 


be  punished  enough  ?  And  now  Geordie’s  in  a  fair  way 
for  favours,  and  hath  his  bonny  earldom  almost  under  his 
hand.  Eh,  sirs,  that  put  your  trust  in  princes,  go  warily 
your  ways ! ’ 

Ruthven,  by  his  side,  nudged  him  to  be  done  with  it. 

‘No,  no,  my  lord/  cries  Archie,  ‘I’ll  not  be  silenced 
when  I  see  my  kinsman  slighted ;  him  and  his  high  rights 
passed  over  for  an  outlaw  !  ’ 

These  words  were  used,  ‘  slighted/  ‘  passed  over.’  The 
words  rankled,  the  things  signified  came  to  pass,  as  sur¬ 
prisingly  they  will  when  once  you  begin  to  look  for 
them. 

First  sign  :  —  Early  in  the  winter,  so  soon  as  the  war  was 
over  and  Scotland  ridded  for  a  time  of  declared  enemies, 
the  Earl  of  Bothwell  came  home  whilst  the  King  was  at 
Linlithgow,  was  received  by  her  Majesty,  and  (it  seems) 
made  welcome.  No  doubt  but  he  made  use  of  her  kind¬ 
ness  to  line  his  own  nest ;  at  any  rate,  one  of  the  first 
things  asked  of  the  returning  monarch  was  to  appoint 
this  Bothwell  Lieutenant-General  of  the  South  and  Lord 
Admiral  of  Scotland.  The  parchments  came  before  him 
for  the  sign-manual.  O  prophet  Archibald !  he  found  the 
Queen’s  name  already  upon  them. 

He  raised  an  outcry.  ‘The  Earl  of  Bothwell!  The 
Earl  of  Bothwell !  How  much  more  grace  for  this  outlaw  ? 
Is  it  not  enough  that  he  return  with  his  head  on  his 
shoulders  ?  ’ 

She  replied  that  he  had  deserved  well  of  both  of  them. 
He  had  scared  her  shameful  brother  out  of  Scotland,  who 
would  have  gone  for  no  other  body.  He  had  a  stout  heart, 
had  promised  her  that  Moray  should  die  an  alien  or  a  felon, 
and  would  keep  his  word. 

‘  But  this  office  is  a  promise  to  my  father,  madam,’  says 
the  King.  ‘  I  promised  him  that  Lieutenancy  six  months 
since,  and  may  no  more  go  back  upon  my  word  than  my 
Lord  Bothwell  upon  his.’ 

Rather  red  in  the  face,  she  urged  her  reasons.  ‘  That 
is  not  convenient,  dear  friend.  They  do  not  love  my  Lord 
of  Lennox  in  the  West.  There  are  other  reasons  —  good 
reasons.  Had  you  been  here  you  would  have  heard  them 


BK.  II 


206  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

all.  You  must  not  vex  me  in  this,  now  —  of  all  times  in 
my  life.’ 

He  looked  her  up  and  down  curiously,  without  manners, 
without  enthusiasm.  Perhaps  he  did  not  understand  her  — 
he  had  a  thick  head.  Then  he  signed  the  dockets  and 
went  out,  not  having  seen  that  she  had  shut  her  eyes  and 
was  blushing. 

Dreadfully  jealous  of  his  ‘prerogatives,’  he  interposed 
in  everything  after  this,  had  all  state  correspondence  before 
him  and  saw  all  the  replies,  whether  they  were  of  home  or 
abroad.  Here  the  Italian  angered  him,  whose  habit  had 
always  been  to  converse  with  her  Majesty  in  French  :  no 
frowns  nor  furious  pacing  of  the  closet  could  break  him  off 
it.  The  Queen,  very  gentle  towards  him,  insisted  that  the 
secretary  should  paraphrase  his  letters  into  a  kind  of  Scots  ; 
but  the  King,  who  was  stupid  at  business,  boggled  over 
the  halting  translation,  did  not  understand  any  more  than 
at  first,  and  suspected  the  Italian  of  deliberate  mystifi¬ 
cation.  He  told  the  Queen  that  she  should  speak  the 
vernacular  with  this  hireling.  She  said,  and  truly,  that 
she  thought  in  French  and  spoke  it  better;  when,  never¬ 
theless,  she  tried  to  gratify  him,  even  he  saw  that  it  was 
absurd.  Absurd  or  not,  he  loved  David  none  the  better 
for  that. 

He  suspected  everybody  about  her  person,  but  chiefly 
this  fat  Italian ;  to  whose  score  he  laid  his  next  rebuff,  the 
very  palpable  hit  that  it  was.  The  old  Duke  of  Chatel- 
herault,  exiled  for  the  late  rebellion,  was  pining  in  England, 
it  seems,  and  beginning  to  ail.  Shallow  old  trickster  as  he 
might  be,  he  loved  his  country  and  his  kindred,  and  was 
(as  the  Queen  could  never  forget)  head  of  the  Hamiltons, 
of  the  blood  royal.  He  crept  back  in  December  over  the 
Solway,  and  from  one  of  his  coast-castles  sent  humble 
messengers  forward  to  her  for  pardon  and  remission  of 
forfeiture.  To  these  she  inclined,  on  more  grounds  than 
one.  She  had  some  pity  for  the  old  hag-ridden  man, 
haunted  ever  with  the  shadow  of  madness  as  he  was ;  she 
remembered  his  white  hair  and  flushing,  delicate  face. 
Then  her  new  Earl  of  Huntly  had  married  into  that 
family ;  and  she  wished  to  keep  a  hold  on  the  Gordons. 


CH.  II 


GRIEFS  OF  ADONIS 


207 


And  then,  again,  the  blood  royal !  She  forgot  that  if  she 
could  comfortably  admit  Chatelherault  his  share  in  that, 
her  husband  could  never  admit  it  without  impeaching  his 
own  rights.  So  she  inclined  to  the  piteous  letters,  and 
allowed  herself  to  be  pitiful. 

The  King,  on  the  first  hint  of  this  clemency,  was  moved 
beyond  her  experience.  No  sulking,  brooding,  knitting  of 
brows ;  he  fairly  stormed  at  her  before  her  circle.  ‘  What 
am  I,  madam  ?  What  silly  tavern-sign  do  you  make  of 
me?  You  exalt  my  chief  enemy,  my  hereditary  enemy, 
enemy  of  my  title  to  be  here  —  and  ask  me  to  record  it ! 
King  Henry  is  to  declare  his  esteem  for  the  Hamiltons, 
who  desire  to  unking  him !  This  is  paltry  work,  the  design 
too  gross.  I  see  foreign  fingers  at  work  in  this.  But  I  will 
never  consent,  never  !  Ask  me  no  more.’ 

The  Italian  surveyed  his  august  company  at  large,  lifted 
his  eyebrows,  and  blandly,  patently,  deliberately  shrugged. 
My  Lord  of  Bothwell  himself  had  little  stomach  for  this ; 
but  the  King  strangled  a  cry  and  turned  upon  his  insolent 
critic.  ‘White-blooded,  creeping,  fingering  dog!’  He 
drew  his  dagger  on  the  man,  and  for  the  moment  scared 
the  life  out  of  him. 

Lord  Bothwell  stepped  in  between,  a  broad-shouldered 
easy  gentleman  ;  the  next  step  was  the  Queen’s,  flame-hued 
now,  and  at  her  fiercest.  ‘  Put  up  your  weapon,  my  lord, 
and  learn  to  be  the  companion  of  your  prince.  Until  this 
may  be,  the  Council  is  dissolved.  Farewell,  sirs.  David, 
stay  you  here.  I  have  need  of  you.’ 

Bothwell  and  Huntly,  they  say,  fairly  led  him  out  of 
the  presence.  Good  lack,  here  was  Proof  the  Second ! 
The  companion  of  his  prince !  He  would  certainly  have 
killed  the  Italian  had  not  the  Queen  taken  care  that  he 
should  not. 

Once  more  he  went  away,  and  stayed  away.  He  would 
wait  until  she  felt  the  need  of  him,  he  said  to  his  friends 
Archie  Douglas  and  Ruthven,  who  never  left  him  now. 
On  this  occasion  the  Master  of  Lindsay  was  of  the  party, 
which  rode  into  the  Carse  of  Gowrie,  hunting  the  fox. 
Hacked  son  of  a  fighting  father,  worse  companion  he  could 
not  have  had  —  saving  the  presence  of  the  other  two  —  than 


20  8 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


Lindsay  of  the  burnt  face  and  bloodshot  eye.  ‘  The  King 
with  many  friends !  ’  said  Bothwell  when  he  heard  how 
they  set  out.  ‘  Smarthering  Archie  to  stroke  him  tender, 
Ruthven  to  scrape  him  raw,  and  now  Lindsay  with  his 
fire-hot  breath  to  inflame  the  part !  Geordie,  we  must  fend 
for  the  Queen.’  Huntly,  sublimely  in  love,  conscious  of 
his  growth  in  grace,  said  that  he  was  ready. 

With  the  aid  of  these  two  advancing  noblemen  her 
Majesty’s  government  went  on.  She  gave  the  Hamiltons 
hard  terms,  which  they  took  abjectly  enough ;  she  pardoned 
Argyll,  because  he  must  be  separated  from  his  former 
friends  ;  the  rest  of  the  rebels  were  summoned  to  surrender 
to  her  mercy  at  the  Market  Cross  ;  failing  that,  forfeiture 
of  lands  and  goods  for  my  Lord  of  Moray.  The  day 
fixed  for  him  was  the  12th  March.  Huntly  was  sure 
he  would  not  come,  but  Bothwell  shook  his  head.  ‘  Keep 
your  eye  on  Mr.  Secretary’s  letter-bag,  madam,  and  let 
him  know  that  you  do  it.  I  shall  feel  more  restful  o’ 
nights  when  we  are  over  the  12th  March.  Another 
thing  you  may  do :  throw  him  into  the  company  of  your 
brown-eyed  Fleming.  Does  your  Majesty  know  that 
property  of  a  dish  of  clear  water  —  to  take  up  the  smell 
of  the  room  you  set  it  in?  Your  Lethington  has  that 
property,  therefore  let  him  absorb  your  little  Fleming;  you 
will  have  him  as  dovelike  as  herself.’  The  advice  was 
taken,  and  Mr.  Secretary  rendered  harmless  for  the 
present. 

Then  came  news  of  the  King’s  return  ;  but  not  the  King. 
He  was  certainly  at  Inchkeith,  said  gossip  —  Inchkeith,  an 
island  in  the  Firth ;  but  when  she  asked  what  he  did 
there,  she  got  confused  replies.  Bothwell  said  that  he  was 
learning  to  govern.  ‘  He  has  been  told,  madam,  do  you 
see  ?  that  if  he  can  rule  Lindsay  and  Ruthven  in  three 
roods  of  land  he  will  have  no  trouble  with  Scotland 
afterwards.’ 

The  Queen,  although  she  suffered  this  light-hearted 
kind  of  criticism  without  rebuke,  did  not  reply  to  it,  nor 
did  she  let  Bothwell  see  that  she  was  anxious.  The  Italian 
saw  it,  however,  whether  she  would  or  no,  and  took  care  to 
give  her  every  scrap  of  news.  She  learned  from  him  that 


CH.  II 


GRIEFS  OF  ADONIS 


209 


the  King  was  drinking  there,  fuddling  himself.  He  was 
holding  a  Court,  where  (as  Bothwell  had  guessed)  he  was 
easily  King,  throned  on  a  table,  with  a  ‘lovely  Joy’  on 
either  hand.  She  had  the  names  of  his  intimates,  with 
exact  particulars  of  their  comings  and  goings.  The  Earl 
of  Morton  was  not  above  suspicion  ;  he  went  there  by 
night  always,  cloaked  and  in  a  mask.  The  Queen,  more 
conscious  of  her  power  since  the  rebellion,  conscious  now 
of  her  matronly  estate,  grew  sick  to  have  such  nasty 
news  about  her  —  it  was  as  if  the  air  was  stuck  with  flies. 
Presently  she  fell  sick  in  good  truth,  with  faintings,  pains 
in  her  side,  back-soreness,  breast-soreness,  heart-soreness. 
It  did  not  help  her  to  remember  that  she  must  be  at 
Linlithgow  at  Christmas,  and  meet  the  King  there. 

Lying  in  her  bed,  smothered  in  furs,  shivering,  tossing 
herself  about  —  for  she  never  could  bear  the  least  physical 
discomfort  —  she  chewed  a  bitter  cud  in  these  dark  days, 
and  her  thoughts  took  a  morbid  habit.  She  fretted  over 
the  Court  at  Inchkeith,  imagined  treasons  festering  there 
and  spreading  out  like  fungus  to  meet  the  rebels  in 
England;  distrusted  Bothwell  because  he  did  not  choose 
to  come  to  her,  Huntly  because  he  did  not  dare;  she  dis¬ 
trusted,  in  fact,  every  Scot  in  Scotland,  and  found  herself 
thereby  clinging  solely  to  the  Italian;  and  of  him  —  since 
she  must  speak  to  somebody  —  she  consequently  saw  too 
much.  The  man  was  very  dextrous,  very  cheerful,  very 
willing  ;  but  he  had  a  gross  mind,  and  she  had  spoiled 
him.  To  be  kind  to  a  servant,  nine  times  in  ten,  means 
that  you  make  him  rich  at  your  own  charges,  and  then 
he  holds  cheap  what  his  own  welfare  has  diminished.  So 
it  was  here  :  Davy  was  not  the  tenth  case.  She  had 
been  bountiful  in  friendship,  confidence,  familiarity  —  of 
the  sort  which  friends  may  use  and  get  no  harm  of. 
He  had  always  amused  her,  and  now  he  soothed  and 
strengthened  her  at  once  by  sousing  her  hot  fancies  in 
the  cold  water  of  his  common-sense.  She  had  learned  to 
fear  the  workings  of  her  own  mind,  informed  as  it  was  by 
a  passionate  heart ;  she  would  lean  upon  this  honest  fel¬ 
low,  who  never  looked  for  noonday  at  eleven  o’clock,  and 
considered  that  a  purge  or  a  cupping  was  the  infallible 
o 


210 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


remedy  for  all  ailments,  including  broken  hearts.  It  is 
not  for  you  or  me,  perhaps,  to  complain  where  she  did 
not.  Queen  Mary  was  no  precisian,  to  expect  more  than 
she  asked.  If  she  loved  she  must  be  loved  back  ;  if  she 
commanded  she  must  be  obeyed ;  if  she  was  hipped  she 
must  be  amused.  I  believe  Signior  Davy  gave  himself 
airs  and  made  himself  comfortable.  She  found  the  first 
ridiculous  and  the  second  racial.  She  knew  that  chivalry 
was  not  a  virtue  of  that  land  where  bargaining  is  at  its 
best,  and  that  where  her  Italian  saw  a  gate  open  he  would 
reasonably  go  in.  The  odds  are  that  he  presumed  insuffer¬ 
ably  ;  certain  it  is  that,  though  she  never  saw  it,  others 
saw  nothing  else,  and,  gross-minded  themselves,  misread 
it  grossly.  The  tale  was  all  about  the  town  that  Signior 
Davy  was  the  Queen’s  favourite,  and  where  he  was  always 
to  be  found,  and  what  one  might  look  for,  and  who  was 
to  be  pitied,  etc.  etc.  The  revellers  at  Inchkeith  advised 
each  other  to  mark  the  end,  and  some  were  for  telling  the 
King.  But  Archie  Douglas  was  against  that.  ‘  Tell  him 
now,’  he  said,  ‘  and  see  your  salmon  slip  through  the  net. 
Wait  till  Davy’s  in  the  boat,  man,  and  club  him  then.’ 

Nevertheless,  the  deft  Italian,  by  his  cold  douches,  his 
playing  the  fool,  his  graceless  reminiscences  and  unending 
novels,  cured  the  Queen.  Late  in  December  she  astonished 
the  Court  by  holding  a  council  in  person  —  in  a  person, 
moreover,  as  sharp  and  salient  as  a  snow-peak  glittering 
through  the  haze  of  frost,  and  as  incisive  to  the  touch. 
There  were  proclamations  to  be  approved :  ‘  The  King’s 
and  Queen’s  Majesties  considering,’  etc.,  the  common  form. 
These  must  be  altered,  she  said.  ‘The  Queen’s  Majesty 
by  the  advice  of  her  dearest  husband  ’ :  she  would  have  it 
thus  for  the  future.  Tonic  wit  of  the  Italian  !  for  to  whom 
else,  pray,  could  you  ascribe  it  ?  The  word  went  flying 
about  that  the  style  was  changed,  and  was  not  long  in 
coming  to  Inchkeith.  ‘  The  Queen’s  husband  !  ’  Ill  news 
for  Inchkeith  here. 

Yet,  the  night  he  had  it,  he  gloomed  over  it  —  being  in 
his  cups  —  with  a  kind  of  slumberous  gaiety  stirring  under 
his  rage. 

‘  The  Queen’s  husband !  By  the  Lord,  and  I  am  the 


CH.  II 


GRIEFS  OF  ADONIS 


21 1 


Queen’s  husband.  Who  denies  it  is  a  liar.  Archie  Douglas, 
Archie  Douglas,  if  you  say  I  am  not  the  Queen’s  husband 
you  lie,  man.’ 

‘I,  sir?’  says  Archie,  very  brisk.  ‘No,  sir,  I  am  very 
sure  of  it.  By  my  head,  sir,  and  her  Majesty  knows  it.’ 

‘  She  ought  to  know  it.  She  shall  know  it.  I’m  a  rider, 
my  lords ;  I  ride  with  the  spur.’ 

‘Tis  the  curb  you  lack,’  says  Ruthven,  with  a  harsh 
laugh. 

The  blinking  youth  pondered  him  and  his  words.  ‘I’m 
for  the  spur  and  a  loose  rein,  Ruthven.  I  get  the  paces 
out  of  my  nags.  I  have  the  seat.’ 

‘  Half  of  it,  say,  my  lord  !  ’ 

Everybody  heard  that  except  the  King,  who  went 
grumbling  on.  ‘You  shall  not  teach  me  how  to  sit  a 
horse.  I  say  you  shall  not,  man.’ 

‘  My  lord,’  cried  Lindsay,  who  never  would  call  him 
‘sir,’  ‘the  talk  is  not  of  horse-riding.  If  we  use  that 
similitude  for  the  Queen’s  government,  I  tell  your  lordship 
it  is  unhappy.  For  on  that  horse  of  government  there  be 
two  riders,  I  think;  and  of  what  advantage  is  the  loose 
rein  of  your  lordship  when  your  fellow  uses  the  curb  ?  ’ 

‘  Ay  my  good  lord,  you  hit  the  mark.  Two  riders,  two 
riders,  by  God’s  fay  !  ’ 

The  same  voice  as  before — heard  this  time  by  the  King. 
No  one  knew  who  had  spoken,  nor  were  the  words  more 
explicitly  offensive  than  Lindsay’s ;  but  the  pothouse  tone 
of  them  caught  the  muzzy  ear,  hit  some  quick  spot  in  the 
cloudy  brain,  and  stung  like  fire.  The  King  lifted  up  his 
head  to  listen ;  he  opened  his  mouth  and  stared,  as  if  he 
saw  something  revealed  beyond  the  window,  some  warning 
or  leering  face.  Then  he  rose  and  held  by  his  chair. 
‘Two  riders?  Two  riders  ?  Two!  Who  said  that?  By 
heaven  and  hell,  bring  me  that  man !  ’ 

The  pain,  the  horror  he  had,  the  helpless  rage,  made  a 
dead  hush  all  over;  nobody  stirred.  Ridiculous  he  may 
have  been,  as  he  raised  his  voice  yet  higher  and  mouthed 
his  words  —  worthless  he  was  known  to  be  —  and  yet  he 
was  tragic  for  the  moment.  ‘  I  say  it  is  damnable  lying,’ 
he  said,  swaying  about.  ‘  I  say  that  man  shall  go  to  deep 


212 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


hell.’  He  stared  round  the  hall,  at  his  wits’  end.  His 
wits  made  a  pounce.  ‘Archie,  thou  black  thief,  ’twas 
thou  !  ’ 

‘  No,  sir;  no,  upon  my  soul.’ 

‘  Ruthven,  if  you  have  dared — Lindsay  —  Fleming !  Oh, 
mercy  and  truth  !  ’ 

The  rest  was  hideous. 

They  got  him  to  bed  between  them,  while  little  Forrest 
cried  and  made  a  fuss,  praying  them  to  kill  him  sooner 
than  leave  him  with  his  master  in  the  raving  dark.  No 
one  took  any  notice  of  the  anguish  of  a  boy. 

With  time  came  counsel,  and  friends  very  free  with  it. 
Even  prudence  made  herself  heard  in  that  brawling  house. 
The  King  should  meet  his  consort  at  Linlithgow,  do  his 
duty  by  her,  observe  the  Christmas  feast. 

‘You  will  do  well,  sir  —  though  I  am  sore  to  say  it  —  to 
hear  the  popish  mass,’  he  was  advised:  ‘with  reservation 
of  conscience,  the  stroke  would  be  politic.’ 

He  agreed  with  all  such  advice ;  he  intended  to  be  wise. 
But  the  grand  stroke  of  all  was  the  Earl  of  Morton’s,  to 
devise  a  way  by  which  the  injured  husband  could  point  the 
King’s  demands  with  that  undoubted  right  of  his.  The 
Crown-Matrimonial,  resounding  phrase !  let  him  ask  her  to 
give  him  that.  Nobody  was  prepared  to  say  what  was  or 
was  not  this  Crown-Matrimonial,  or  whether  there  was  such 
a  crown.  The  term  was  unknown  to  the  law,  that  must  be 
owned ;  and  yet  it  had  a  flavour  of  law.  It  was  double¬ 
armed,  yet  it  was  hyphenated ;  you  could  not  deny  part  of 
it  in  any  event.  Why,  no,  indeed !  cried  Inchkeith  at 
large,  highly  approving. 

Archie  Douglas  cheered  his  noble  kinsman :  ‘  Hail, 
King-Matrimonial  of  Scotland  !  ’ 

Ruthven  grinned,  it  was  thought,  approvingly ;  but 
Lord  Morton,  remembering  that  he  was  still  the  Queen’s 
Chancellor  and  should  not  go  too  far,  made  haste  to  advise 
the  utmost  delicacy.  Above  all  things,  let  no  breath  of 
his  dealings  be  heard. 

‘I  need  not  affirm  my  earnest  hope,’  he  said,  ‘that 
peace  and  good  accord  may  come  out  of  this.  The  wish 


CH.  II 


GRIEFS  OF  ADONIS 


213 


must  find  acceptance  in  every  Christian  heart.  As  such 
I  utter  it.  I  am  not  in  place  to  do  more.  I  cannot 
admonish ;  I  serve  the  State.’ 

The  King  nodded  sagely. 

‘  Good,  cousin,  good.  I  take  your  meaning.  It  is  a 
fair  intent,  for  which  I  am  much  beholden  to  you.’ 
Adonis,  the  proud  rider,  was  chastened  just  now. 

They  met,  therefore,  at  Linlithgow,  heard  mass  to¬ 
gether,  made  their  offerings,  and  to  all  the  world  were 
friends  again.  The  Crown-Matrimonial  lay  hidden  until 
the  spring  of  the  year.  N ot  even  the  new  coinage  —  Maria 
f.t  Henricus,  ‘the  dam  before  the  sire’  —  tempted  it 
out ;  but  there  were  reasons  for  that.  A  week  after  the 
Epiphany,  as  they  were  in  the  Queen’s  closet  with  a  small 
company,  she  took  his  hand  and  said :  ‘  My  lord,  you 
shall  hereafter  give  me  what  worship  you  can  ;  for  now  I 
know  of  a  certainty  that  I  have  deserved  well  of  you  and 
Scotland.’  Her  pride  in  the  fact  and  something  of  pity  for 
herself  made  her  voice  quiver. 

He  started  and  flushed  quickly.  ‘Is  it  true,  madam? 
Is  that  the  case  ?  Oh,  I  thank  God  for  it !  ’ 

He  would  not  let  go  of  her  hand,  but  waited  impatiently 
until  those  present  took  the  hint  and  retired  ;  then  took 
her,  kissed  her,  and  called  her  his  Mary  again. 

She  cried  contentedly  enough,  her  cheek  against  his 
heart ;  and  he,  at  once  triumphant  and  generous,  father 
and  lover,  stayed  by  her  for  a  whole  day  and  night. 

There  was  much  talk,  as  you  may  suppose.  The  maids 
went  about*  with  their  heads  in  the  air,  as  if  they  had 
achieved  something.  But  apart  from  them,  all  the  talk 
was  not  of  this  complacent  kind.  Mr.  Randolph,  for 
instance,  wrote  to  his  patron,  Mr.  Cecil,  of  England  :  ‘The 
Queen  is  with  child  beyond  a  doubt.  She  informed  the 
King  in  my  hearing.  Now,  woe  is  me  for  you  when 
David’s  son  shall  be  King  in  England  !  ’  And  there  is  no 
doubt  that  what  Mr.  Randolph  took  leave  to  report  was 
no  news  to  the  late  revellers  of  Inchkeith. 


CHAPTER  III 

DIVERS  USES  OF  A  HARDY  MAN 

In  all  her  late  perplexities  of  disordered  mind,  unsteady 
hand,  chagrin,  disenchantment,  and  what  not,  it  is  strange 
to  observe  with  what  tenacity  the  Queen  kept  a  daily 
glance  of  her  eyes  for  one  private  affair.  It  was  an  affair 
of  the  heart,  however. 

Those  who  know  her  best  explain  that  she  suffered  from 
a  malady  of  the  affections.  ‘  The  Queen  my  mistress,’ 
says  Des-Essars  in  Le  Secret  dcs  Secrets ,  ‘  when  she  had 
once  seen — even  for  a  few  moments  only  —  man,  woman,  or 
child  in  whom  lay,  somewhere,  some  little  attractive  quality 
or  action,  could  never  rest  until  she  had  him  subject 
utterly  to  her  will.  Subject,  do  I  say?  The  word  is  weak. 
The  devotion  which  she  must  have  was  so  absolute  that 
she  never  got  it,  could  hardly  ever  deceive  herself  that  she 
had  got  it ;  and  would  have  spurned  it  at  once  if  she  had, 
as  a  grovelling  thing  not  worth  a  thought.  But,  just 
because  she  never  could  get  it,  she  never  tired  of  the 
pursuit  of  it.  To  get  it  she  would  humble  herself,  lower 
herself,  make  herself  ridiculous,  cheapen  herself  ;  to  hold 
what  she  had  (or  thought  she  had)  she  would  play  any 
part,  tell  most  fibs,  do  much  injustice  to  herself  and  the 
unfortunate  capture  ;  to  lose  after  all  was  to  suffer  torments 
of  baffled  hope  and  endeavour  ;  and  then  —  to  begin  again 
upon  some  similar  panting  quest.  Sometimes  she  sickened, 
but  of  possession,  never  of  pursuit;  and  if  she  did,  it  was 
an  infallible  sign  that  the  thing  she  had  had  been  too 
easily  caught.  Thus  she  sickened  of  “Adonis,”  not  because 

214 


ch.  in  DIVERS  USES  OF  A  HARDY  MAN  215 

he  had  been  restive  at  first,  but  because  he  had  not  been 
restive  until  after  he  was  won.  She  had  longed  for  him, 
wooed  him,  wed  him  in  secret.  All  was  going  well.  If 
ever  her  cup  of  joy  had  brimmed  over,  it  had  been  on  that 
night  of  sudden  consummation  at  Wemyss.  That  golden, 
beaded  cup !  there  had  seemed  a  well-spring  in  it,  a  feast 
to  be  enjoyed  for  ever  in  secret,  by  delicious,  hasty  snatches. 
But  when  they  ordered  the  affair  in  public,  it  was  stale 
after  the  event ;  and  when  he  —  the  fool  —  cried  over  her  the 
mort  o’  the  deer  (as  I  know  he  did,  for  Sir  Adam  Gordon 
heard  him),  it  had  been  his  own  death,  not  hers,  that  he 
proclaimed.  Sated  too  soon,  she  had  time  to  see  herself 
and  to  shudder  at  the  wry  image  she  made. 

‘I  know  very  well,’  he  adds,  in  an  afterthought,  ‘that, 
in  saying  this,  I  may  be  taken  as  an  example  to  point  my 
own  thesis;  but  even  if  I  were,  the  reflections  are  just. 
And  the  fact  is  that,  although  she  knew  that  I  loved  her, 
and  might,  indeed,  have  loved  me,  she  learned  of  my 
manhood  too  late.  I  can  add  also,  with  a  hand  on  my 
heart,  that  she  would  never  have  had  to  pursue  me.  For  I 
was  always  at  her  feet.’ 

But  to  return  to  my  matter  —  this  affair  of  the  heart.  It 
most  curiously  bears  out  Des-Essars’  analysis  to  remember 
that  when  she  released  George  Gordon  from  his  bonds,  and 
had  him  once  more  spilling  love  at  her  feet,  she  was  by  no 
means  touched.  The  sanguine  young  man  loved  her,  she 
knew  it  well ;  but  she  always  felt  a  little  leap  of  scorn  for 
a  man  who  could  own  to  loving  her.  It  made  him  seem 
womanish  in  her  eyes,  like  Chatelard.  And  in  the  very 
act  —  when  he  was  below  her  footstool,  ready  to  kiss  her 
foot  —  she  remembered  that  there  was  one  Gordon  whom 
she  had  not  yet  won.  She  remembered  Jean  Gordon,  who, 
on  that  day  of  Gordon’s  Bane,  had  looked  at  her  fixedly, 
with  grave  dislike  —  had  had  the  nerve  to  survey  her  Queen 
and  judge  and  pick  out  what  parts  to  despise.  She  had 
rarely  seen  her  since,  but  had  never  forgotten  her.  Deep 
in  her  burning  heart  she  had  cherished  the  hope  of  winning 
that  frozen  heart;  and  here  —  with  George  Gordon  kissing 
her  foot  —  sat  she,  curiously  pondering  how  far  she  could 
use  the  brother  to  lure  the  sister  into  the  net 


21 6 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


There  was  nothing  unholy  about  this  desire  of  hers  to 
subdue  a  girl’s  heart.  It  was  coloured  by  impulses  which 
were  warm  and  rich  and  chivalrous.  Had  it  been  that  of  a 
youth  there  would  not  be  a  word  to  say ;  there  was  much 
of  the  quality  of  a  youth  about  Queen  Mary.  She  certainly 
had  his  chivalry  —  for  chivalry  is  really  pity,  with  a  relish  — 
a  noble  emotion  which  reacts  by  exalting  the  percipient. 
She  saw  herself  protector  of  this  friendless  girl,  felt  kindly 
the  very  kindly  kiss  which  she  would  bestow  :  it  should  fall 
like  dew  upon  the  upturned,  stony  face.  At  its  fall  the 
cold  and  dread  would  thaw,  tears  would  well  in  those 
judging  eyes,  the  hardened  lips  would  quiver,  the  congealed 
bosom  would  surge ;  sobbing,  grieving,  murmuring  her 
thankful  love,  Jeannie  Gordon  would  hasten  into  forgiving 
arms.  O  mercy  of  the  forgiven  !  O  grace  of  the  forgiving  ! 
The  picture  was  pure,  the  desire  (I  repeat)  honest — but  there 
was  glory  to  be  gained  too,  a  vision  to  be  made  good  of  the 
Queen  playing  the  lover’s  part,  worth  every  shift  of  the 
quick  head,  and  all  the  cajolery  of  the  sidelong  eyes.  Ah 
me  !  Here  was  a  chase-royal. 

Giving  George  Gordon  kind  words,  and  hope  of  kinder, 
she  had  his  mother  and  sister  to  Court,  and  to  them  was 
sincerity,  princely  magnanimity  itself.  The  old  Countess 
was  soon  won  over :  there  came  a  day  when  she  would  not 
hear  a  word  against  her  Majesty,  and  would  judge  her  dead 
husband’s  actions  sooner  than  allow  her  patroness  to  be 
condemned  in  their  defence.  Her  two  sons  stood  by  her  — 
both  lovers  of  this  divine  huntress  ;  so  that  the  house  of 
Huntly  was  in  ascension,  and  Des-Essars,  feeling  that  his 
nose  was  (as  they  say)  out  of  joint,  showed  that  he  felt  it 
by  patronising  his  comrade  Adam. 

But  Adam  disarmed  him.  ‘  My  brother  is  to  be  Earl 
again,  Baptist,  and  therefore  I  am  Sir  Adam.  You  do 
wrong  to  refuse  me  the  salute.  But  let  be.  To  you  I  shall 
always  be  plain  Adam  Gordon,  because  we  share  the  same 
adventure.  Now  let  me  tell  you.  She  kissed  me  yester- 
e’en  —  here.’  He  touched  his  forehead.  ‘  I  owe  you  nothing 
for  civility,  yet  I’ll  not  go  back  upon  my  bond.  You  shall 
take  your  joy  of  the  place  :  it  is  your  right.’  Then  they 
made  it  up ;  Adam  pursued  his  family  up  the  hill  of  fame 


ch.  in  DIVERS  USES  OF  A  HARDY  MAN 


217 


It  is  all  in  a  fair  way ;  look  now,  I’ll  tell  you  a  secret. 
The  Bastard  is  out  in  arms ;  but  if  we  win  he  will  lose  his 
head,  and  then  Moray  shall  be  ours  again !  Who  knows 
what  may  come  of  that  ?  Be  sure,  however,  that  I  shall 
not  forget  you,  Baptist.  No,  no.  What  I  win  of  you  know 
what  shall  be  yours  to  the  full  half.’  He  owned  that  he 
was  vexed  with  his  sister.  ‘What!  she  sulks  in  the 
presence  — she  holds  back  — like  a  child  fighting  a  blown 
fire!  ’Tis  unmaidenly  of  Jeannie;  I  doubt  her  a  true 
Gordon.  And  talks  of  the  B^guines  of  Bruges,  doth  she  ? 
Let  her  go,  say  I.’  All  this  judgment  of  Jeannie’s  case,  as 
the  reader  perceives,  was  before  the  chasing  of  the  Earl  of 
Moray,  and  before  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  came  home  with 
French  Paris,  his  candid  valet.  A  word  now  of  him. 

He  arrived  in  Scotland,  you  will  remember,  when  her 
war  with  rebels  was  as  good  as  over.  She  was  keen ; 
flushed  with  one  triumph,  and  sanguine  of  another. 
Scotland  at  her  feet,  and  all  the  Gordons  hers  but  one  : 
how  was  stubborn  Jeannie  to  hold  out  against  her?  She 
was  wedded,  she  was  safe,  she  was  victorious,  she  was 
happy:  everything  combined  to  make  the  redoubtable 
Bothwell  welcome  to  her.  It  was  possible,  she  found,  to 
meet  him  without  quickening  of  the  breath  ;  it  was  possible 
to  look  coolly  at  him,  and  (O  marvel!)  to  ask  herself  what 
under  heaven  she  had  once  dreaded  in  him.  His  eyes  ? 
Had  they  seemed  audacious?  They  were  small  and 
twinkling.  His  throat,  jaw,  and  snarling  mouth  —  had  they 
seemed  purposeful  and  cruel  ?  The  one  was  forward  and 
the  other  curved,  just  ready  to  laugh.  Well,  is  a  laughing 
man  dangerous  to  women?  When  she  considered  that, 
less  than  a  year  ago,  she  had  written  secretly  to  the  man, 
sent  him  a  glove,  and  with  that  a  fib,  she  could  contemplate 
herself  in  the  act,  as  one  may  a  pale  old  picture  of  oneself 
(in  curls  and  a  pinafore)  at  some  childish  game  —  with 
humorous  self-pity,  and  with  some  anxious  regrets  too. 
The  thing  was  well  done  with  —  over  and  done  with;  but 
heigho!  the  world  had  been  more  ventureful  then.  He 
gave  her  back  her  faded  tokens ;  they  came  from  his  bosom 
and  went  into  hers — no  thrills!  They  were  quite  cold 
when  she  laid  them  by. 


218 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


He  joined  the  field  with  her,  or  what  was  left  of  it,  and 
brought  with  him  the  Border  clans  —  Elliots,  Armstrongs, 
Turnbulls,  and  his  own  Hepburns  —  ragged  and  shoeless, 
less  breeched  than  the  Highlanders,  if  that  were  possible ; 
but  men  of  dignity  and  worth,  as  she  saw  them,  square- 
bearded,  broad-headed  men,  tawny  as  foxes,  blunt,  un¬ 
mannerly,  inspecting  her  and  her  two  women  without  awe 
or  curiosity.  They  were  like  their  chief,  she  thought,  and, 
with  him  to  lead  them,  never  lagged  in  the  chase.  Huntly 
had  his  Gordons ;  and  there  were  Forbeses,  Grants,  Ogilvies. 
Breechless  were  they — some  at  least — but  of  great  manners ; 
they  had  poets  among  them,  and  her  beauty  was  the  theme 
of  harp-strings  as  well  as  eye-strings.  The  pipes  swelled 
and  screamed  in  her  daily  praise ;  fine  music,  great  air ! 
But  those  glum,  ruminating  Borderers,  to  whom  she  was 
just  a  ‘long  bit  lassock  ’ !  She  turned  to  them  again 
directly  the  piping  was  stopped — to  them  and  their  chief, 
who  was  of  them,  blood  and  bone.  Twice  she  traversed 
Scotland  in  their  midst,  watching  them  by  day,  dreaming 
of  them  by  night.  Just  as  little  could  she  do  without  this 
bracing,  railing  Bothwell  as  without  proud  Jeannie  Gordon, 
whom  she  loved  in  vain. 

And  thus  the  combination  came,  as  in  a  flash,  the  old 
beloved  scheme  of  unity  —  north  and  south  to  awe  the 
middle  parts  of  Scotland.  Old  Huntly  had  proposed  it 
and  failed  —  it  had  been  the  death  of  him;  but  now  she 
would  try  it  and  succeed.  Into  the  north  she  would  put  a 
new  Huntly ;  out  of  the  south  she  would  call  a  new  Both¬ 
well.  A  match,  a  match  !  The  thought  came  to  her  with 
a  ringing  sound  of  hopeful  music,  ‘Now  I  have  thee  mine, 
proud  Jeannie  Gordon  !  ’  Strange,  ardent,  wilful  creature 
—  half  perverse,  half  unsexed !  Because  a  man  did  not 
love  her  she  would  trust  him,  because  a  girl  would  have 
nothing  to  say  to  her  she  could  never  let  her  alone !  But 
Master  Des-Essars  was  right.  She  was  a  born  huntress. 

The  preliminaries  of  the  hopeful  match  were  easily 
made :  Huntly  was  grateful,  the  dowager  profuse ;  Both¬ 
well  chuckled  when  he  was  sounded  about  it,  but  declined 
to  discuss  so  simple  a  matter. 

‘You’ll  never  find  me  backward,  my  friend,’  he  told 


ch.  in  DIVERS  USES  OF  A  HARDY  MAN  219 

Huntly  (as  George  Gordon  now  was  called) ;  *  many  indeed 
have  complained  that  I  am  not  backward  enough.  I’m  a 
bull  in  a  pasture  —  I’m  an  invading  host  —  I  devastate,  I 
come  burning.  But  there  !  have  it  as  you  will’ 

Nobody  else  was  consulted,  for  nobody  else  was  worth 
it  in  the  Queen’s  eyes.  When  time  had  been  given  for  all 
to  sink  in,  she  sent  for  Jean  Gordon ;  who  was  brought  by 
her  mother  to  the  door  of  the  cabinet,  put  through  it,  and 
left  there  face  to  face  with  her  careful  Majesty.  The  time 
of  year  was  mid-January. 

The  Queen  sat  upon  a  heap  of  cushions  by  the  fire, 
leaning  back  a  little  to  ease  herself.  Her  chin  was  in  her 
hand  —  a  sign  that  she  was  considering.  She  wore  a  rich 
gown  of  murrey-coloured  satin,  showed  her  red  stockings 
and  long,  narrow  slippers.  Her  condition  was  not  hid,  and 
her  face  would  have  told  it  in  any  case  —  pinched,  peaked, 
and  pettish.  Her  eyes  were  like  a  cat’s,  shifty  and  rang¬ 
ing,  now  golden-red,  now  a  mask  of  green,  now  all  black, 
according  as  she  glanced  them  to  the  light;  her  thin, 
amorous  lips  looked  like  a  scarlet  wound  in  her  pale  face. 
By  her  side  stood  Mary  Fleming,  a  gentle  creature  in  pale 
rose,  as  if  set  there  that  by  her  very  humanity  she  might 
enhance  the  elfin  spell  of  the  other.  This  Queen  was  like 
a  young  witch,  rather  new  to  the  dangerous  delight,  but 
much  in  earnest. 

She  looked  up  sideways  at  the  girl  by  the  door  —  a  girl 
to  the  full  as  tall  as  she,  and  much  more  sumptuous  : 
deep-breasted,  beautiful,  composed,  a  figure  of  a  nun  in  her 
black  and  ivory.  For  her  hair  was  perfect  black  and  her 
face  without  a  tinge ;  and  all  her  gown  was  black,  with  a 
crucifix  of  silver  hung  from  her  waist.  She  clasped  her 
hands  over  it  as  she  stood  waiting. 

‘  Come,  my  girl,’  said  the  Queen. 

Jean  took  a  few  steps  forward  and  knelt  down.  It 
seems  that  she  might  have  pleased  if  she  had  done  it 
sooner. 

‘Very  well :  it’s  very  well,’  the  Queen  began  ;  and  then, 

‘  No  !  it  is  not  at  all  well !  You  seek  my  hand  to  kiss  it. 
You  shall  not  have  it !  ’ 


220 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


She  put  one  hand  below  the  other,  and  watched  for  the 
effect.  There  was  none.  Provoking  ! 

‘  Why  should  I  give  my  hand  to  a  little  rebel,’  she  went 
on  again,  ‘  who  says  in  her  heart,  “  My  mother  is  beguiled, 
my  brothers  are  beguiled,  but  I  will  never  be  ”  ?  who  says 
again,  “  If  she  gives  me  her  hand,  and  I  kiss  it,  ’twill  be 
because  I  dare  not  bite  it  ”  ?  Why  then  should  I  give  my 
hand  to  you  ?  ’ 

‘  You  should  not,  madam,’  says  Jean. 

The  Queen  bit  her  lip. 

‘  Oh,  the  guarded,  darkened  heart  of  you,  Jean  !  Why, 
if  I  bore  a  grudge  as  hardly  as  you,  whom  should  I  not 
drive  out  of  Scotland  ?  ’ 

As  Jean  made  no  answer,  Fleming  was  brought  into 
play. 

‘  Answer  for  her,  Fleming.  Tell  her  I  should  drive 
them  all  out.  Should  my  brother  have  stayed  ?  He  is  too 
happy  in  England,  I  think.  Shall  I  keep  your  Lethington 
at  home  ?  ’ 

Poor  Fleming  coloured  with  pain. 

‘  Nay,  child,  nay  —  I  am  teasing  thee.  I  know  that  if  he 
will  not  kiss  my  hand  ’tis  because  he  hopes  for  thine.  And 
belike  he  can  have  it  for  the  asking !  Alack,  this  Lething¬ 
ton  with  his  two  wicked  hands !  One  he  will  hold  out  to 
England,  and  my  false  brother  Moray  will  take  it;  one  to 
Scotland,  and  pretty  Fleming  hath  it.  A  chain,  a  chain ! 
to  pen  the  naughty  Queen,  who  will  not  let  traitors  kiss 
her  hands,  and  must  be  taught  better  respect  for  liars,  lick¬ 
spittles,  and  time-servers !  ’ 

She  was  working  herself  to  be  dangerous.  Good 
Fleming’s  whisper  in  her  ear,  ‘  Dear,  sweet  madam,  deal 
not  too  harshly!’  might  have  been  heard,  had  not  Jean 
Gordon  been  kneeling  there,  stinging  her  to  worse. 

‘  Harshly,  harshly,  my  girl  ?  ’  the  Queen  snapped  at 
Fleming.  ‘  I  am  water  heaving  against  that  rock  —  torn 
ragged  by  its  fret,  and  scattered  to  the  wind  —  to  drop  down 
as  tears  —  as  salt  tears,  Mary  Fleming!  Ah,  the  sea  will 
drink  up  my  tears,  and  the  sea  have  me  at  last,  and  lap  me 
to  soft  sleep,  and  soothe  me  that  I  forget !  ’  She  changed 
her  mood,  looked  proudly  at  the  kneeling  girl.  ‘You,  that 


ch.  hi  DIVERS  USES  OF  A  HARDY  MAN  221 


will  not  kiss  my  hand  —  nor  shall  not  —  you  are  to  forget 
what  you  choose  and  remember  what  you  choose ;  but  of 
me  you  expect  —  what,  O  heaven  !  My  memory  is  to  lie  in 
your  lap  and  obey  you.  Oh,  it  is  very  well!  I  am  to 

forget  that  your  father  was  a  traitor - ’ 

The  girl’s  eyes  met  hers  directly. 

‘  He  was  none,  madam.’ 

‘  I  say  I  am  to  forget  that,  and  remember  that  I  dealt 
sternly  with  an  old  man.’ 

Jean  grew  fiercely  white.  ‘Barbarously,  madam!’  she 
said ;  ‘  when  you  dragged  a  dead  old  man  from  the  grave 
and  spat  upon  his  winding-sheet.’ 

‘  Hush,  hush !  ’  said  Mary  Fleming;  and  Jean  looked  at 
her,  but  said  no  more.  The  Queen  was  very  pale,  lying 
on  her  side,  crouched  among  the  cushions. 

‘He  defied  me,’  she  said,  ‘but  I  forgave  hinj  that.  He 
tampered  with  my  enemies,  he  boasted  and  lied  and 
cheated.  He  died  in  arms  against  his  prince,  and  I  shed 
tears  in  pity  of  myself.  For  then  I  was  new  in  Scotland, 
and  thought  that  the  love  of  a  man  was  something  worth, 
and  shivered  when  I  lost  it,  as  one  left  bare  to  the  gales. 
Now  I  know  wiselier  concerning  mannish  love  ;  and  I  know 
how  to  draw  it  since  I  hold  it  cheap.  I  would  as  soon 
draw  that  of  dogs  and  apes,  I  think.’  She  looked  over 
her  shoulder,  then  quickly  pillowed  her  cheek  again,  but 
held  up  her  hand.  Mary  Fleming  took  it.  ‘Dogs,  and 
apes,  and  tigers  are  men,  Mary  Fleming !  ’  the  complaining 
voice  resumed ;  ‘  and  I  Dame  Circe  at  her  spells !  And 
here  before  me,  look  you,  poor  faithful,  chaste  Penelope, 
that  will  not  touch  my  hand !  ’ 

She  gave  a  little  moan,  and  sat  up,  shaking  her  head. 

‘  No,  no,  no,  my  girl,  you  have  the  wrong  of  me.  I  weave  no 
spells,  I  want  no  dogs  and  apes  —  no  man’s  desire.  Love !  ’ 
she  clasped  her  hands  at  the  stretch  of  her  arms,  ‘  Love !  I 
want  love  —  and  have  it  from  all  women  but  you.  I  am  the 
queen  of  women’s  hearts,  and  you  are  my  only  rebel.  Love 
me,  Jean  !  Forgiveness,  nta  mie  !  ’ 

There  was  no  answer.  The  Queen  started  forward, 
almost  frenzied,  and  threw  herself  upon  the  girl  —  encircled 
her,  clung,  and  began  to  kiss  her.  She  kissed  her  lips, 


222 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


cheeks,  eyes,  and  hair;  she  stroked  her  face,  she  begged  and 
prayed.  ‘Love  me,  Jeannie:  I  have  done  you  no  wrong. 
I  had  no  hand  in  it  —  I  could  not  move  alone.  I  cried,  but 
could  not  move.  They  would  have  it  so.  Oh,  love  me, 
my  dear,  for  the  sake  of  what  I  have  bought  and  paid  for  !  ’ 

A  flint-stone  would  have  thawed  under  such  a  lava- 
stream.  Jean  Gordon  took  a  softer  tinge,  but  tried  to  free 
herself. 

‘I  thank  your  Majesty  —  I  would  not  seem  too  hard. 
Maybe  I  have  been  stiff,  maybe  I  have  brooded.  There 
has  been  too  much  thinking  time,  sitting  at  work  for  ever 
in  our  dark  house.  I  thank  your  Majesty —  I  thank  your 
Grace.’ 

The  Queen  lay  back  again,  smiling  through  her  tears. 
Mary  Fleming,  deeply  moved,  took  her  hand  and  lifted  it, 
holding  it  out  —  by  look  and  gesture  commanding  the  other 
to  do  it  reverence.  So  it  was  done  at  last. 

The  Queen  said  softly :  ‘  I  thank  you,  child ;  I  thank 
you,  Jeannie.  You  make  me  happier.  Trust  me  now,  and 
sit  beside  me.  I  have  a  matter  for  your  ears,  and  for  your 
heart  too,  as  I  hope.’ 

So  Jean  sat  staidly  by  her  on  the  cushions  and  heard 
the  marriage-plan.  All  she  could  find  to  say  was  that 
she  hoped  it  would  give  satisfaction  to  her  Majesty. 

The  Earl  of  Bothwell,  then,  was  married  upon  the  Lady 
Jean  Gordon  on  24th  February,  at  Holyrood,  by  the  Pro¬ 
testant  rite.  The  Queen  and  Court  were  there,  she  very 
scornful  and  full  of  mockery  of  what  was  done.  She  said, 
and  loudly,  ‘  If  the  bride  is  content  with  this  munchance, 
why  should  I  be  discontent  ?  ’  meaning,  of  course,  that  there 
was  every  reason  in  the  world  why  she  should  be.  But  the 
truth  was  that  the  bride,  who  professed  the  old  religion, 
had  no  choice ;  for  the  Earl  had  insisted  upon  the  minister 
and  his  sermon  at  the  price  of  marriage  whatsoever,  and 
the  lady’s  brother  Huntly  shared  his  opinion.  Whereupon 
the  bride  had  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

‘I  am  bought  and  sold  already,’  she  said;  ‘therefore 
what  matter  to  me  whether  the  market  is  out  of  the 
statute  ?  ’ 


ch.  hi  DIVERS  USES  OF  A  HARDY  MAN 


223 


The  Queen  laughed.  ‘  Tu  as  rayson,  ma  belle,’  she  said. 
*  Le  vray  mariage  s’est  faict  ailleurs.’ 

And  Lady  Jeannie  replied  in  a  low  voice,  ‘  Nous  verrons, 
madame.’ 

All  things  accomplished,  and  the  Queen  gone  out  by 
her  private  door,  the  Earl  handed  his  Countess  through 
the  press  to  the  great  entry.  Many  people  came  surging 
about  them;  the  courtyard  seemed  chockablock,  with 
vexed  cries  tossed  here  and  there,  both  ‘God  bless  the 
Queen  !  ’  and  ‘  God  damn  the  Paip  !  ’  In  the  midst  of  all 
the  Countess  makes  as  if  to  falter,  cries  out,  ‘  Oh,  my  foot 
hurts  me  !  ’  gets  free  her  hand  and  stoops.  What  was  she 
about  ? 

The  Earl,  who  was  quickly  put  out  when  he  was  playing 
a  part  (as  he  surely  was  just  now),  stood  by  for  a  little, 
twitching  his  cheek-bones.  Anything  would  have  vexed 
him  at  such  a  time,  and  at  any  time  he  scorned  a  mob. 
So  he  pushed  forward  to  clear  more  space,  crying  roughly, 
with  his  arms  abroad,  ‘  Out,  out,  ye  tups !  ’  He  made 
himself  an  open  way  to  the  doors,  and  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  the  chapel,  very  fierce,  plucking  at  his  beard, 
his  hat  over  his  brows.  There  was  room  behind  and  before 
him:  in  front  were  the  grooms  and  servants  with  their 
masters’  swords.  ‘  I  dare  ye  to  move,  ye  babbling  thieves,’ 
he  seemed  to  be  threatening  them,  and  kept  them  mute  by 
the  power  of  the  eye. 

Meantime  the  Countess  rises  from  her  foot,  puts  her 
hand  on  a  young  man’s  shoulder  near  by,  and  says,  ‘  Take 
you  me.’  This  young  man,  grave  and  personable,  is  Mr. 
Alexander  Ogilvy  of  Boyne,  whom  I  hope  you  remember  to 
have  seen  last  fighting  with  her  brother,  John  of  Findlater, 
in  the  Luckenbooths,  that  day  when  the  Gordons  came 
swelling  into  Edinburgh  to  see  the  new  Queen.  He  was 
an  old  sweetheart  of  hers,  and  might  have  had  her  but  for 
that  unlucky  encounter.  And  since  he  was  here  —  was  it  for 
his  sake  that  the  Countess  Jeannie  had  hurt  her  foot?  It 
is  uncertain. 

However  —  ‘  Fear  not,  lady,  but  I’ll  take  you  where  you 
please,’  he  assures  her;  and  walks  out  of  church,  her  hand 
Upon  his  shoulder. 


224 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


Thus  they  come  level  with  the  Earl,  and  pass  him. 

‘  How  now,  wife  ?  ’  he  cries  :  ‘  so  soon  !  ’ 

‘  Even  so,  my  lord,  since  you  are  so  tardy,’  says  she, 
without  a  look  his  way. 

This  Mr.  Ogilvy  walks  directly  into  the  crowd,  which 
makes  a  way  for  him,  hugely  tickled  by  his  spirit,  and 
closes  in  upon  him  after.  The  Earl  lets  fly  a  sounding 

oath,  and  starts  after  them.  ‘By - and - ,  but  I’m 

for  you !  ’ 

They  let  him  through ;  they  cry,  ‘  Earl  Bothwell  is 
after  his  lady!  The  hunt  is  up  —  toho !  ’  There  was 
much  laughter,  driving,  flacking  of  hands ;  and  the  women 
were  the  worst. 

After  dinner,  dancing :  the  Queen  in  wild  spirits,  handed 
about  from  man  to  man,  and  (not  content  with  that)  dancing 
with  the  women  when  men  flagged.  Her  zest  carried  her 
far  out  of  politics ;  wary  in  the  chamber,  she  was  like  one 
drunk  at  a  feast.  So  she  saw  nothing  of  the  comedy 
enacting  under  her  very  eyelids :  how,  while  she  was  led 
out  by  my  lord,  Mr.  Ogilvy  made  play  with  my  lady ;  and 
my  lord,  very  much  aware  of  it,  fumed.  The  minute  he 
was  dismissed,  down  he  strode  through  the  thick  of  the 
frolic,  maddening  at  the  courtiers  bowing  about  him,  and 
quarrelled  and  talked  loud,  and  drank  and  talked  louder ; 
but  yet  could  not  get  near  his  handsome  new  wife.  He 
roundly  told  his  brother-in-law  at  last  that  if  her  ladyship 
would  not  come,  he  should  go  alone. 

‘  Whither,  my  lord  ?  ’  asks  Huntly. 

‘  Why,  to  bed,’  says  he. 

‘  It  is  yet  early/  says  Huntly. 

‘  It  is  none  so  early  for  the  bed  I  intend  for,’  he  was  told. 
‘  My  bed  is  at  Hermitage.  I  am  master  there,  I’d  let  you 
know,  and  shall  be  here  some  day,  God  damn  me.’  He  was 
in  a  high  rage  at  the  way  things  were  going,  and  always 
impatient  of  the  least  restraint.  One  or  two  bystanders, 
however,  shrewd  men,  suspected  that  he  had  met  his  match. 

Lord  Huntly  did  not  believe  him  —  could  not  believe 
that  he  would  ride,  and  ask  his  young  Countess  to  ride, 
fifty  miles  through  the  marriage  night.  Nevertheless, 


ch.  iii  DIVERS  USES  OF  A  HARDY  MAN  225 

towards  six  o’clock,  the  Earl  came  into  the  lower  hall 
with  his  great  boots  on  and  riding-cloak  over  his  shoulder, 
and  confronted  his  lady  standing  with  Mr.  Ogilvy,  my 
Lord  Livingstone,  Mary  Sempill,  her  Master,  and  some 
more. 

‘  My  lady,’  he  said  with  a  reverence,  ‘lama  bird  of  the 
bough.  ’Tis  after  my  hour —  I’m  for  my  bed.’ 

Lady  Bothwell  gave  him  a  short  look.  ‘  If  that  is  your 
night-gear,  my  lord,  you  sleep  alone.’ 

Harshly  he  laughed.  ‘  It  seems  I  am  to  do  that.  But, 
mistress,  when  you  want  me  you  will  find  me  at  Hermitage, 
whither  I  now  go.  And  the  same  direction  I  give  to  you, 
Mr.  Ogilvy,’  says  he  with  meaning.  ‘  If  you  come  into  my 
country,  or  any  country  but  this  cursed  town,  you  shall 
find  me  ready  for  you,  Mr.  Ogilvy  of  Boyne.’ 

Ogilvy  wagged  his  head.  ‘  La  la  la !  We  shall  meet 
again,  never  fear,  my  Lord  Bothwell,’  says  he. 

The  Countess  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss.  ‘  I  wish  you 
good-night,  Boyne,’  she  said :  ‘  I  am  going  to  my  bed  ’ : 
then,  looking  her  Earl  in  the  face,  ‘  Pray  you  send  your 
page  for  my  women,  my  lord.  I  lack  my  riding-gear.’ 

Lord  Huntly,  who  was  up  with  them  by  now,  cries  out: 

‘  What  wild  folly  is  this  ?  Do  you  rave  ?  You  will  never 
go  to  Liddesdale  this  hell-black  night !  Are  you  mad, 
Lord  Bothwell,  or  a  villain  ?  ’ 

‘I’m  a  bird  of  the  bough,  brother-in-law,  a  bird  of  the 
bough.’ 

The  Countess  turned  to  her  brother.  ‘  Should  I  be 
afraid  of  the  dark,  Huntly,  with  this  nobleman  by  my 
side  ?  ’ 

‘  God’s  death,  my  child,’  says  Bothwell,  admiring  her 
cool  blood,  ‘  I  would  be  more  at  your  side  if  you  suffered 
me.’ 

Lord  Huntly  turned  on  his  heel. 

She  went  to  take  leave  of  the  Queen,  and  found  her  on 
an  unworthy  arm.  ‘  My  leave,  madam.  I  crave  liberty  to 
follow  my  lord.’ 

‘  It  should  be  the  other  way,  child,’  said  the  Queen,  ‘  for 
a  little  while,  at  least.  But  we  will  come  and  put  you  to 
bed — and  he  shall  come  after.’ 


226 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


‘Your  Majesty’s  pardon,  but  this  may  hardly  be.  My 
lord  chooses  for  Hermitage,  and  I  must  follow  him  —  as 
my  duty  is.’ 

It  made  the  Queen  grow  red  ;  but  she  did  not  let  go  the 
arm  she  had.  ‘  As  you  will,  mistress,’  she  said  stiffly,  and 
added  something  in  Italian  to  her  companion,  who  raised 
his  eyebrows  and  gave  a  little  jerk  of  the  head. 

‘You  ride  a  long  way  for  your  joy,’  she  resumed,  with 
a  hard  ring  in  her  voice.  ‘  It’s  to  be  hoped  you  are  well 
accompanied.  Yonder  is  a  wild  country  :  Turnbulls  in  the 
Lammermuirs,  Elliots  in  Liddesdale.  But  you  have  a  wild 
mate.’ 

The  Countess  then  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  ‘  Your 
Majesty  forgets,’  she  said.  ‘  It  is  not  men  that  I  and  mine 
have  reason  to  fear.’ 

After  a  short  and  quick  recoil  the  Queen  went  straight 
up  to  her  and  took  her  face  in  her  two  hands.  Speaking 
between  clenched  teeth,  she  said:  ‘You  shall  not  quarrel 
with  me,  Jeannie  BothwelL  Or  I  will  not  quarrel  with 
you.  I  wish  you  well  wherever  you  go.  Remember  that : 
and  now  give  me  a  kiss.’ 

She  had  to  take  it,  for  it  was  not  offered  her ;  and  then 
she  pushed  the  girl  away  with  a  little  angry  sob.  ‘  Ah, 
how  you  hate  me!  You  are  the  only  woman  in  Scotland 
that  hates  me.’  She  felt  the  prick  of  tears,  and  shook  her 
head  to  be  so  fretted.  ‘  If  I  were  to  tell  you  of  your  Earl 

—  as  I  could  if  I  cared - ’  The  Italian  touched  her  arm, 

and  brought  her  sharply  round.  ‘  Well  ?  Why  should  I 
not  ?  Am  I  such  a  happy  wife  that  my  wedding-ring  is  a 
gag  ?  Shall  she  have  of  me  the  bravest  man  in  Scotland, 
and  not  know  the  price  ?  ’  Gulping  down  her  anger,  she 
put  her  hand  on  her  bosom  to  keep  it  quiet.  ‘  No,  no,  I 
am  not  so  base.  Let  her  have  what  comfort  she  can.  All 
wives  need  that.  God  be  with  you,  Jeannie  BothwelL’ 

‘And  with  your  Majesty,  at  all  times.’ 

The  Countess  curtsied,  kissed  hands,  and  went  away 
backwards.  She  had  not  taken  the  smallest  notice  of  the 
Italian. 

‘  If  I  could  hate  like  that,  David,’  said  the  Mistress,  ‘  I 
should  be  Queen  of  France  at  this  hour.’ 


ch.  hi  DIVERS  USES  OF  A  HARDY  MAN 


227 


‘  Oh,  oh  !  And  so  you  can,  madam,  and  so  you  shall,’ 
replied  the  man. 

The  Queen  sent  for  more  lights,  and  drink  for  the 
fiddlers.  She  did  more.  To  please  the  French  Ambas¬ 
sador  and  his  suite,  she  and  her  maids  put  on  men’s 
clothes,  and  flashed  golden  hangers  from  their  belts  before 
the  courtly  circle.  The  dancing  grew  the  looser  as  the 
lights  flared  to  their  end.  Many  a  man  and  many  a  maid 
slept  by  the  wall;  but  there  was  high  revelry  in  the 
midst.  J 

Very  late,  the  tumble  and  rioting  at  its  top,  in  came 
the  King,  with  Lord  Ruthven,  Archie  Douglas,  and  some 
more  of  his  friends.  He  stared,  brushed  his  hot  eyes. 

‘  What  a  witches’  Sabbath  !  Where’s  my - ?  Where’s 

the  Queen  ?  ’ 

‘Yonder,  sir.  Masked,  and  talking  with  my  Lady 
Argyll  —  and - ’ 

‘  God  help  us,  I  see.’  He  pushed  squarely  through  the 
crowd,  and  stood  before  her,  not  steadily. 

‘Good-morrow  to  your  Majesty,’  he  said.  '  The  hour 
is  late  or  early,  as  you  take  it.  But  I  am  here  —  ready 
for  bed.’ 

She  held  her  head  up,  looking  away  from  him,  and 
spoke  as  if  she  were  talking  to  her  people. 

‘  I’ll  not  come,’  she  said.  ‘  I  am  going  to  cards.  Come, 
ladies.  Come,  sirs.’  Turning,  she  left  him. 

He  looked  after  her  owlishly,  blinking  as  if  he  was 
about  to  cry.  He  caught  Ruthven  by  the  arm.  ‘Oh, 
man,  he  said,  ‘  oh,  Ruthven,  do  you  see  that  ?  Do  you 
see  whom  she  has  there  ?  ’ 

‘Hush,  sir,’  says  Ruthven.  ‘ ’Tis  the  same  as  yester¬ 
day,  and  all  the  yesterdays,  and  as  many  morrows  as  you 
choose  to  stomach.  Come  you  to  your  bed.  You  cannot 
mend  it  this  way.’ 

The  King  still  blinked  and  looked  after  his  wife.  He 
began  to  tremble.  ‘Oh,  man,’  he  said,  ‘when  shall  I 
do  it  ?  ’ 

Ruthven,  after  a  flashing  look  at  him,  ran  after  the 
Queen’s  party.  She  was  a  little  in  front,  cloaked  now  and 
walking  with  her  ladies.  Ruthven  caught  up  the  Italian 


228 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


and  said  some  words.  The  man  stopped,  and  looked  at 
him  guardedly.  Ruthven  came  closer,  and  put  his  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  talking  copiously.  As  he  talked,  and 
went  on  talking,  his  hand  slipped  gently  down  the  Italian’s 
back  to  his  middle,  opened  itself  wide,  and  stayed  there 
open. 

They  parted  with  laughter  on  both  sides,  and  a  bow 
from  David.  Ruthven  came  back. 

‘  You  may  do  it  when  you  please,  sir,’  he  said  to  the 
King. 


CHAPTER  IV 


MANY  DOGS 

When,  on  6th  March,  the  expected  stroke  fell  upon  my 
Lord  Chancellor  Morton,  and  he  was  required  to  hand 
over  the  seals  of  his  high  office  to  the  Queen’s  messengers, 
he  did  so  with  a  certain  heavy  dignity.  As  I  imply,  he 
had  had  time  for  preparation.  He  had  not  seen  his 
sovereign  for  some  weeks,  knew  that  Lethington  had  not, 
knew  also  that  his  alliance  (even  his  kinship)  with  the 
King  had  worked  against  him,  and  suspected  finally, 
that  what  that  had  not  done  for  his  prospects  had  been 
managed  by  the  Italian.  So  he  bowed  his  head  to  Erskine 
and  Traquair  when  they  waited  upon  him,  and,  pointing  to 
the  Great  Seal  on  the  table,  said  simply,  ‘  Let  her  Majesty 
take  back  what  her  Majesty  gave.  Gentlemen,  good 
night.’  Truly,  we  may  say  that  nothing  in  his  life  became 
him  like  the  leaving  it :  but  that  is  the  rule. 

The  same  evening  —  nine  o’clock  and  a  snowy  night  — 
Archie  Douglas  came  to  his  house  in  the  Cowgate  and 
found  him  writing  letters  —  not  easily,  but  with  grunts, 
his  tongue  curling  about  his  upper  lip.  The  disgraced 
Chancellor  looked  up,  saw  his  cousin,  and  went  on  writing. 
Archie  waited.  So  presently,  ‘  Moriturus  te  salutat ,’  says 
the  Earl,  without  ceasing  to  labour. 

‘  Pshaw,  cousin,’  says  Archie,  ‘  I  have  come  to  you  with 
a  better  cry  nor  that.’ 

‘Have  you  indeed?’  scoffed  my  lord.  ‘Man,  I  would 
be  fain  to  know  it.’ 

‘  ’Tis  Habet ,’  says  Archie,  ‘and  down  with  your  thumb.’ 

229 


230 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


Lord  Morton  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  raked  his 
beard  with  the  pen’s  end.  The  quip  struck  his  fancy  as  a 
pleasant  one. 

‘  I  take  your  meaning,’  he  said.  ‘  I  had  thought  of  it 
myself.  But,  to  say  nothing  of  his  place  by  her  side,  I 
doubt  he  wears  a  steel  shirt.’ 

Archie  said  shortly:  ‘  He  does  not.  The  King  felt  him 
last  night  as  he  sat  at  the  cards.  And  Ruthven  felt  him 
well  on  Both  well’s  marriage  night.’ 

‘The  King!  He  did  that!’ 

‘  He  did  just  that.’ 

Morton  gazed  at  him  for  a  minute.  ‘Why,’  he  mar¬ 
velled,  ‘  why,  then  he  stands  in  wi’  the  rest  ?  Archie,  are 
ye  very  sure  ?  ’ 

Archie  the  wise  snapped  his  fingers  at  such  elementary 
knowledge.  ‘A  month  gone,  come  Friday,  he  began  to 
open  to  Ruthven  about  it.’ 

The  Earl  rapped  the  table  smartly  with  his  fingers. 

‘  And  I  am  the  last  to  know  it !  I  thank  you,  cousin,  for 
your  good  conceit  of  me.  By  the  mass,  man,  you  treat 
me  like  a  boy.’ 

‘  It’s  no  doing  of  mine,’  says  Archie.  ‘  I  was  for  making 
you  privy  to  it  a  week  syne  ;  but  Ruthven,  he  said,  “  No.” 
You  were  still  Chancellor,  d’ye  see?  And,  says  Ruthven, 
your  lordship  was  a  tappit  hen,  that  would  sit  till  they 
took  the  last  egg  from  under  ye.’ 

‘  Damn  his  black  tongue  !  ’  growled  my  lord,  and  looked 
at  his  letters.  ‘  But  he’s  in  the  right  of  it,’  he  added. 
‘  Cold,  cold  is  my  nest  the  now.’ 

Archie  moistened  his  lips.  ‘  They  took  the  seals  from 
you  this  morn,  cousin  ?  ’ 

‘  It  is  not  three  hours  since  they  had  them.’ 

‘  Do  you  guess  what  did  it  ?  ’ 

Morton  laughed  shortly.  ‘  Ay !  It  was  my  Crown- 
Matrimonial,  I  doubt.’  * 

‘  And  do  you  guess  who  did  it  ?  ’ 

He  did  not  laugh  now.  ‘  Have  done  with  your  idle 
questioning.  Who  should  do  it  but  the  fiddler  ?  ’ 

‘  One  more  question,’  says  Archie,  ‘  by  your  leave.  Do 
you  guess  who  sits  in  your  seat  ?  ’ 


CH.  IV 


MANY  DOGS 


231 


*  Ay,  I  think  it,  I  think  it.  She  will  give  it  to  one  of 
her  familiars  —  her  Huntly,  or  her  fine  Bothwell.’ 

Archie  once  more  snapped  his  fingers.  ‘Nor  one,  nor 
t’other.  There’s  a  man  more  familiar  than  the  pair. 
Cousin,  the  fiddler  seals  the  briefs !  The  Italian  is  to  be 
Chancellor.  Now  what  d’ye  say  ?  ’ 

Lord  Morton  said  nothing  at  all.  He  looked  up,  he 
looked  down;  he  screwed  his  hands  together,  rolled  one 
softly  over  the  other. 

Archie  watched  his  heavy  face  grow  darker  as  the  tide 
of  rage  crept  up.  Presently  he  tried  to  move  him. 

‘  Are  you  for  England,  cousin  ?  ’  he  asked. 

‘  Ay/  said  Morton,  ‘that  is  my  road.’ 

Archie  then  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  ‘Bide  a 
while,  my  lord.  We  shall  all  be  friends  here  before  many 
days.  Argyll  is  here.’ 

‘  Argyll  ?  The  fine  man  !  ’ 

‘A  finer  follows  him  hard.’ 

*  Who  then  ?  Your  sage  Lethington  ?  * 

‘Lethington!  Hoots!  no;  but  the  black  Earl  of 
Moray,  my  good  lord.’ 

The  Earl  of  Morton  stopped  in  the  act  of  whistling. 

‘  Moray  comes  home  ?  ’ 

‘Ay.  His  forfeiture  is  set  for  the  12th.  He  is  coming 
home  to  meet  it.  All’s  ready.’ 

Morton  was  greatly  interested.  To  gain  time  he  asked 
an  idle  question.  ‘  Who  has  written  him  to  come  ?  Leth¬ 
ington  ?  ’ 

‘  Ay,  Michael  Wylie.’ 

This  was  the  name  they  gave  him.  Machiavelli  may 
be  intended  —  if  so,  an  injustice  to  each. 

‘Who  returns  with  my  lord?’  Morton  asked  him  next; 
and  Archie  held  up  his  fingers. 

‘All  of  them  that  are  now  in  England.  Rothes,  Pit- 
arrow,  Grange  —  all  of  them.  Stout  men,  cousin.’ 

Stout  indeed !  One  of  them  had  been  enough  for 
Master  Davy.  My  Lord  Morton,  his  head  sunk  into  his 
portly  chest,  considered  this  news.  Moray  was  an  assur¬ 
ance  for  how  did  Moray  strike  ?  In  the  dark  —  quickly  — 
when  no  one  was  by.  Well,  then,  if  Moray  were  coming 


232 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


to  strike  one’s  enemy,  why  should  one  meddle  ?  He  was 
never  at  his  ease  in  that  great  man’s  company,  because  he 
could  never  be  sure  of  his  own  aims  while  he  doubted  those 
of  his  colleague.  You  could  not  tell  —  you  never  could  tell 
—  what  Janies  Stuart  intended.  He  would  cut  at  one  for 
the  sake  of  hitting  another  at  a  distance.  If  he  were 
coming  back  to  cut  at  the  Italian,  for  instance  —  at  what 
other  did  he  hope  to  reach  ?  Morton  drove  his  slow  wits 
to  work  as  he  sat  staring  at  his  papers,  trying  vainly  to 
bottom  the  designs  of  a  man  whom  he  admired  and  dis¬ 
trusted  profoundly.  Why  so  much  force  to  scrag  a  wretched 
Italian  ?  The  King,  Archie,  Moray,  Grange,  Pitarrow, 
Argyll !  And  now  himself,  Morton !  At  whom  was 
Moray  aiming  ?  Was  he  entangling  the  King,  whom  he 
hated  ?  Could  he  be  working  against  the  Queen,  his 
sister  ?  They  used  to  say  he  coveted  the  throne.  Could 
this  be  his  intent  ? 

Such  possibilities  disturbed  him.  Let  me  do  Lord 
Morton  the  justice  to  say  that  his  very  grossness  saved 
him  from  any  more  curious  villainy  than  a  quick  blow  at 
an  enemy.  The  Italian  had  galled  his  dignity :  damn  the 
dog !  he  would  kill  him  for  it.  But  to  intend  otherwise 
than  loyalty  to  the  King,  his  kinsman  —  no,  no!  And  as 
for  the  Queen’s  Majesty  —  why,  she  was  a  lass,  and  a  pretty 
lass  too,  though  a  wilful.  She  would  never  have  stood  in 
his  way  but  for  that  beastly  foreign  whisperer.  Yet  —  if  the 
King  had  been  dishonoured  by  the  fiddler,  and  Moray 
(knowing  that)  meant  honestly  .  .  .  Eh,  sirs !  So  he 
pondered  in  his  dull,  muddled  way  —  his  poor  wits,  like 
yoked  oxen,  heavily  plodding  the  fields  of  speculation, 
turning  furrow  after  furrow !  Guess  how  he  vexed  the 
nimble  Archie. 

‘Well,  cousin,  well?’  cries  that  youth  at  last:  ‘I  must 
be  going  where  my  friends  await  me.’ 

‘  Man,’  said  Morton,  and  stopped  him,  ‘  where  are  ye  for  ?  ’ 

Archie  replied  :  ‘  Mum’s  the  word.  But  if  you  are  the 
man  I  believe  you,  you  shall  come  along  with  me  this 
night.’ 

Morton  had  made  up  his  mind.  ‘  I  am  with  you  —  for 
good  or  ill,’  he  said. 


CH.  IV 


MANY  DOGS 


233 


Cloaked  and  booted,  the  two  kinsmen  went  out  into  the 
dark.  The  wind  had  got  up,  bringing  a  scurry  of  dry 
snow :  they  had  to  pull  the  door  hard  to  get  it  home. 

‘  Rough  work  at  sea  the  night,’  said  Archie. 

'You’ll  be  brewing  it  rougher  on  land,  I  doubt,’  was 
Lord  Morton’s  commentary. 

In  a  little  crow-stepped  house  by  the  shore  of  the  Nor’ 
Loch  the  Earl  of  Morton  was  required  to  set  his  hand  to 
certain  papers,  upon  which  they  showed  him  the  names  of 
Argyll,  Rothes,  Ruthven,  Archie  Douglas,  Lethington,  and 
others.  He  asked  at  once  to  see  Lord  Moray’s  name  : 
they  told  him  Lethington  had  it  to  a  letter,  which  bound 
him  as  fast  as  any  bond. 

‘  It  should  be  here,’  he  said  seriously. 

But  Ruthven  cried  out,  How  could  it  be  there  when  his 
lordship  was  over  the  Border  ? 

Morton  shook  his  head.  ‘  It  should  be  here,  gentlemen. 
’Twere  better  to  wait  for  it.  What  hurry  is  there  ?  ’ 

Ruthven  said  that  the  game  was  begun  and  ought  to  go 
on  now.  ‘Judge  you,  my  lord,’  he  appealed,  ‘if  I  should 
put  my  head  into  a  noose  unless  I  held  the  cord  in  my 
own  hand.’ 

In  his  private  mind  Morton  believed  Ruthven  a  mad¬ 
man.  But  he  did  not  see  how  he  could  draw  out  now. 

He  read  through  the  two  papers  —  bands,  they  called 
them.  It  was  required  of  those  who  signed  that  they 
should  assist  the  King  their  sovereign  lord  to  get  the 
Crown-Matrimonial  —  no  harm  in  that! — and  that  they 
should  stand  enemies  to  his  enemies,  friends  to  his  friends. 
On  his  side  the  King  engaged  to  remove  the  forfeiture 
from  the  exiled  lords,  to  put  back  the  Earl  of  Morton  into 
his  office,  and  to  establish  the  Protestant  religion.  Not  a 
word  of  the  Italian,  not  a  word  of  the  Queen.  The  things 
were  well  worded,  evidently  by  Lethington. 

‘  When  are  we  to  be  at  it  ?  ’  he  asked. 

Ruthven  told  him,  ‘  Saturday  coming,  at  night.’  It  was 
now  Thursday, 

‘  How  shall  you  deal  ?  ’  This  was  Morton  again. 

He  was  told,  In  the  small  hours  of  the  night 


and 


234 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


there  he  stopped  them  at  once.  ‘Oh,  Ruthven !  Oh, 
Lindsay !  Never  on  the  Sabbath  morn  !  Sirs,  ye  should 
not - ’ 

But  Ruthven  waved  him  off.  The  exact  hour,  he  said, 
must  depend  upon  events.  This,  however,  was  the  plan 
proposed.  When  the  Queen  was  set  down  to  cards  or  a 
late  supper,  Lord  Morton  with  his  men  was  to  hold  the 
entry,  doors,  stairheads,  passages,  forecourt  of  the  palace. 
Traquair  would  be  off  duty,  Erskine  could  be  dealt  with. 
Bothwell,  Huntly,  Atholl,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  Queen’s 
friends  would  be  abed ;  and  Lindsay  was  to  answer  for 
keeping  them  there.  The  King  was  to  go  into  the  Queen’s 
closet  and  look  over  her  shoulder  at  the  game.  At  a 
moment  agreed  upon  he  would  lift  up  her  chin,  say  certain 
words,  kiss  her,  and  repeat  the  words.  That  was  to  be 
the  signal :  then  Ruthven,  Archie  Douglas,  and  Fawdon- 
syde — Ker  of  Fawdonsyde,  a  notorious  ruffian  —  would 
do  their  work. 

Morton  listened  to  all  this  intently,  with  slow-travelling 
eyes  which  followed  the  rafters  from  their  spring  in  one 
wall  to  their  cobwebbed  end  in  the  other.  He  could  find 
no  flaw  at  first,  nor  put  his  finger  upon  the  damnable  blot 
there  must  be  in  it ;  but  after  a  time,  as  he  figured  it  over 
and  over,  he  missed  somebody.  ‘  Stop  there !  stop  there, 
you  Ruthven  !  ’  he  thundered.  ‘Tell  me  this  :  Where  will 
Lethington  be  the  while  ?  ’ 

He  was  told,  ‘  Gone  to  meet  the  Earl  of  Moray.’ 
Moray  !  —  his  jaw  fell. 

‘  What !  will  Moray  no  be  with  me  ?  ’ 

They  said,  it  was  much  hoped.  But  the  roads  were 
heavy  ;  there  was  a  possibility - 

He  jeered  at  them.  Did  they  not  know  Moray  yet  ? 
‘  Man,’  he  said,  turning  to  Archie,  ‘  it’s  not  a  possibility,  it’s 
as  certain  as  the  Day  of  Doom.’ 

Then  they  all  talked  at  once.  Moray’s  name  was  fast  to 
a  letter;  the  letter  was  fast  in  Lethington’s  poke;  Lething¬ 
ton  was  fast  to  the  band.  What  more  could  be  done  ? 
Would  Lethington  endanger  his  neck  ?  His  safety  was 
Moray’s,  and  theirs  was  Lethington’s.  And  the  King  ? 
What  of  the  King  ? 


CH.  IV 


MANY  DOGS 


235 


/You  talk  of  Doomsday,  my  lord!’  shouts  Ruthven, 
with  the  slaver  of  his  rage  upon  his  mouth  :  ‘  there’s  but  one 
doom  impending,  and  we’ll  see  to  it.’ 

Peroiations  had  no  effect  upon  Morton,  who  was  still 
bothered.  He  went  over  the  whole  again,  clawing  down 
his  fingers  as  he  numbered  the  points.  There  was  himself 
to  keep  the  palace,  there  was  Lindsay  to  hold  back 

Bothwell;  the  King  to  go  into  the  closet  — the  kiss _ the 

words  of  signal— then  Ruthven  and -  Here  he  stopped, 

and  his  eyes  grew  small. 

Oh,  sirs,.  he  said,  ‘the  poor  lassie!  Sold  with  a  kiss! 
She  s  big,  sirs,  you  11  likely  kill  mother  and  bairn.’ 

Ruthven,  squinting  fearfully,  slammed  the  table. 

‘  Whose  bairn,  by  the  Lord  ?  Tell  me  whose  ?  ’ 

Morton  shook  his  head.  ‘Yon’s  hell-work,’  he  said 
‘I’ll  have  nothing  to  do  wi’t.  I  guess  who’s  had  the 
devising  of  it..  ’Tis  Lethington  —  a  grey-faced  thief.’ 

Here  Archie  Douglas,  after  looking  to  Ruthven,  inter¬ 
vened,  and  talked  for  nearly  half  an  hour  to  his  cousin. 
Morton,  very  gloomy,  heard  him  out;  then  made  his  own  pro¬ 
position.  He  would  stand  by  the  King,  he  said ;  he  would 
hold  the  palace.  No  man  should  come  in  or  out  without 
the  password.  But  he  would  not  go  upstairs,  nor  know  who 
went  up  or  what  went  on.  This  also  he  would  have  them 
all  promise  before  he  touched  the  band  with  a  pen : _ What¬ 

ever  was  done  to  the  Italian  should  be  done  in  the  passage 
There  should  be  no  filthy  butchery  of  a  girl  and  her  child* 
either  directly  or  by  implication,  where  he  had  a  hand  at  a 
job.  Such  was  his  firm  stipulation.  Archie  swore  to 
observe  it;  Fawdonsyde,  Lindsay,  swore;  Ruthven  said 
nothing. 

Archie,  said  his  cousin,  ‘go  you  and  fetch  me  the 
Scriptures.  I  shall  fasten  down  Ruthven  with  the  keys  of 
God.  Ruthven  put  his  hand  upon  the  book  and  swore. 
Then  the  Earl  of  Morton  signed  the  band. 


CHAPTER  V 


MIDNIGHT  EXPERIENCES  OF  JEAN-MARIE-BAPTISTE 

DES-ESSARS 

On  that  appointed  night  of  Saturday,  the  9th  of  March — a 
blowy,  snowy  night,  harrowing  for  men  at  sea,  with  a  mort 
of  vessels  pitching  at  their  cables  in  Leith  Roads  —  Des- 
Essars  was  late  for  his  service.  He  should  have  come  on 
to  the  door  at  ten  o’clock,  and  it  wanted  but  two  minutes 
to  that  when  he  was  beating  down  the  Castle  hill  in  the 
teeth  of  the  wind. 

Never  mind  his  errand,  and  expect  fibs  if  you  ask  what 
had  kept  him.  Remember  that  he  was  older  at  this  time 
than  when  you  first  saw  him,  a  French  boy  ‘with  smut- 
rimmed  eyes,’  crop-headed,  pale,  shrewd,  and  reticent. 
That  was  a  matter  of  three  years  ago :  the  Queen  was  but 
nineteen  and  he  four  years  younger.  He  was  eighteen  now, 
and  may  have  had  evening  affairs  like  other  people,  no  con¬ 
cern  of  yours  or  mine.  Whatever  they  may  have  been, 
they  had  kept  him  unduly ;  he  had  two  minutes  and  wanted 
seven.  He  drew  his  bonnet  close,  his  short  cape  about  him, 
and  went  scudding  down  the  hill  as  fast  as  the  snow  would 
let  him  in  shoes  dangerously  thin  for  the  weather,  but  use¬ 
ful  for  tiptoe  purposes.  The  snow  had  been  heaped  upon 
the  cawsey,  but  in  the  street  trodden,  thawed,  and  then 
frozen  again  to  a  surface  of  ice.  From  it  came  enough 
light  to  show  that  few  people  were  abroad,  and  none  law¬ 
fully,  and  that  otherwise  it  was  infernally  dark.  A  strangely 
diffused,  essential  light  it  was,  that  of  the  snow.  It  put  to 
shame  three  dying  candles  left  in  the  Luckenbooths  and 

236 


CH.  V 


MIDNIGHT  EXPERIENCES 


237 


the  sick  flame  of  an  oil  lamp  above  the  Netherbow  Port. 
After  passing  that,  there  was  no  sign  of  man  or  man’s  com¬ 
forts  until  you  were  in  the  Abbey  precincts. 

Des-Essars  knew  —  being  as  sharp  as  a  needle  —  that 
something  was  changed  the  moment  he  reached  those 
precincts ;  knew  by  the  pricking  of  his  skin,  as  they  say. 
A  double  guard  set;  knots  of  men-at-arms;  some  horses 
led  about ;  low  voices  talking  in  strange  accents,  —  some¬ 
thing  was  altered.  Worse  than  all  this,  he  found  the  word 
of  the  night  unavailing :  no  manner  of  entry  for  him. 

‘  My  service  is  the  Queen’s,  honourable  sir,’  he  pleaded 
to  an  unknown  sentry,  who  wore  (he  observed)  a  steel  cap 
of  unusual  shape. 

The  square  hackbutter  shook  his  head.  ‘  No  way  in  this 
night,  Frenchman.’ 

*  By  whose  orders,  if  you  please  ?  ’ 

‘  By  mine,  Frenchman.’ 

Here  was  misfortune  !  No  help  for  it,  but  he  must  brave 
what  he  had  hoped  to  avoid  —  his  superior  officer,  to  wit. 

‘If  it  please  you,  sir,’  he  said,  ‘I  will  speak  with  Mr. 
Erskine  in  the  guardroom.’ 

‘  Mr.  Airrskin  !  ’  was  the  shocking  answer  —  and  how 
the  man  spoke  it !  —  ‘  Mr.  Airrskin !  He’s  no  here.  He’s 
awa’.  So  now  off  with  ye,  Johnny  Frenchman.’  The  man 
obviously  had  orders  :  but  whose  orders  ? 

Des-Essars  shrugged.  He  shivered  also,  as  he  always 
did  when  refused  anything  —  as  if  the  world  had  proved 
suddenly  a  chill  place.  But  really  the  affair  was  serious. 
Inside  the  house  he  must  be,  and  that  early.  Driven  to  his 
last  resource,  he  walked  back  far  enough  for  the  dark  to 
swallow  him  up,  returned  upon  his  tracks  a  little  way  so 
soon  as  the  hackbutter  had  resumed  his  stamping  up  and 
down  ;  branched  off  to  the  right,  slipping  through  a  ruinous 
stable,  blown  to  pieces  in  former  days  by  the  English ; 
crossed  a  frozen  cabbage  garden  which,  having  been  flooded, 
was  now  a  sheet  of  cat-ice ;  and  so  came  hard  upon  the 
Abbey  wall.  In  this  wall,  as  he  very  well  knew,  there  were 
certain  cavities,  used  as  steps  by  the  household  when  the 
gateways  were  either  not  convenient  or  likely  to  be  denied  : 
indeed,  he  would  not,  perhaps,  have  cared  to  reckon  how 


238 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


many  times  he  had  used  them  himself.  Having  chipped 
the  ice  out  of  them  with  his  hanger,  he  was  triumphantly 
within  the  pale,  hopping  over  the  Queen’s  privy  garden 
with  high-lifted  feet,  like  a  dog  in  turnips.  To  win  the 
palace  itself  was  easy.  It  was  mighty  little  use  having 
friends  in  the  kitchen  if  they  could  not  do  you  services  of 
that  kind. 

He  had  to  find  the  Queen,  though,  and  face  what  she 
might  give  him,  but  of  that  he  had  little  fear.  He  knew 
that  she  would  be  at  cards,  and  too  full  of  her  troubles  and 
pains  to  seek  for  a  new  one.  It  is  a  queer  reflection  that  he 
makes  in  his  Memoirs —  that  although  he  romantically  loved 
the  Queen,  he  had  no  scruples  about  deceiving  her  and  few 
fears  of  being  found  out,  so  only  that  she  did  not  take  the 
scrape  to  heart.  ‘  She  was  a  goddess  to  me,’  he  says,  ‘  in 
those  days,  a  remote  point  of  my  adoration.  A  young 
man,  however,  is  compact  of  two  parts,  an  earthly  and  a 
spiritual.  If  I  had  exhibited  to  her  the  frailties  of  my 
earthly  part  it  would  have  been  by  a  very  natural  impulse. 
However,  I  never  did.’  This  is  a  digression  :  he  knew  that 
she  would  not  fret  herself  about  him  and  his  affairs  just 
now,  because  she  was  ill,  and  miserable  about  the  King. 
Throwing  a  kiss  of  his  hand,  then,  to  the  yawning  scullery- 
wench,  who  had  had  to  get  out  of  her  bed  to  open  the 
window  for  him,  he  skimmed  down  the  corridors  on  a  light 
foot,  and  reached  the  great  hall.  He  hoped  to  go  tiptoe  up 
the  privy  stair  and  gain  the  door  of  the  cabinet  without 
being  heard.  When  she  came  out  she  would  find  him 
there,  and  all  would  be  well.  This  was  his  plan. 

It  was  almost  dark  in  the  hall,  but  not  quite.  A  tree- 
bole  on  the  hearth  was  in  the  article  of  death ;  a  few  thin 
flames  about  the  shell  of  it  showed  him  a  company  of  men 
in  the  corner  by  the  privy  stair.  Vexatious  !  They  were 
leaning  to  the  wall,  some  sitting  against  it ;  some  were  on 
the  steps  asleep,  their  heads  nodding  to  their  knees.  He 
was  cut  off  his  sure  access,  and  must  go  by  the  main  stair¬ 
case —  if  he  could.  He  tried  it,  sidling  along  by  the  farther 
wall ;  but  they  spied  him,  two  of  them,  and  one  went  to  cut 
him  off.  A  tall  enemy  this,  for  the  little  Frenchman ;  but 
luckily  for  him  it  was  a  case  of  boots  against  no  boots 


CH.  V 


MIDNIGHT  EXPERIENCES 


239 


where  silence  was  of  the  essence  of  the  contract  Des- 
Essars,  his  shoes  in  his  hand,  darted  out  into  the  open  and 
raced  straight  for  the  stair.  The  enemy  began  his  pursuit 
—  in  riding-boots.  Heavens!  the  crash  and  clatter  on  the 
flags,  the  echo  from  the  roof  !  It  would  never  do :  hushed 
voices  called  the  man  back;  he  went  tender-footed,  finally 
stopped.  By  that  time  the  page  was  up  the  stair,  pausing 
at  the  top  to  wipe  his  brows  and  neck  of  cold  sweat,  and 
to  wonder  as  he  wiped  what  all  this  might  mean.  Double 
guard  in  the  court  —  strange  voices  —  the  word  changed  — 
Mr.  Erskine  away  !  No  sentry  in  the  hall,  but,  instead,  a 
cluster  of  waiting,  whispering  men  —  in  riding-boots  —  by 
the  privy  stair  !  The  vivacious  young  man  was  imaginative 
to  a  fault;  he  could  construct  a  whole  tragedy  of  life  and 
death  out  of  a  change  in  the  weather.  And  here  was  a 
fateful  climax  to  the  tragedy  of  a  stormy  night !  First, 
the  stress  of  the  driving  snow  —  whirling,  solitary,  forlorn 
stuff !  —  the  apprehension  of  wild  work  by  every  dark  entry. 
Passing  the  Tolbooth,  a  shriek  out  of  the  blackness  had 
sent  his  heart  into  his  mouth.  There  had  been  fighting, 
too,  in  Sim’s  Close.  He  had  seen  a  torch  flare  and  dip, 
men  and  women  huddled  about  two  on  the  ground ;  one 
grunting,  ‘  Tak’  it !  Tak’  it !  ’  and  the  other,  with  a  strangled 
wail,  ‘  Oh,  Jesus  !  ’  Bad  hearing  all  this  —  evil  preparation. 
Atop  of  these  apparitions,  lo  !  their  fulfilment :  stroke  after 
stroke  of  doom.  Cloaked  men  by  the  privy  stair  —  Dieu 
de  Dieu  !  His  heart  was  thumping  at  his  ribs  when  he 
peeped  through  the  curtain  of  the  Queen’s  cabinet  and 
saw  his  mistress  there  with  Lady  Argyll  and  the  Italian. 
‘Blessed  Mother!’  he  thought,  ‘here’s  an  escape  for  me. 
I  had  no  notion  the  hour  was  so  late.’  What  he  meant 
was,  that  the  rest  of  the  company  had  gone.  He  had 
heard  that  Lord  Robert  Stuart  and  the  Laird  of  Criech 
were  to  sup  that  night.  Well,  they  had  supped  and  were 
gone !  It  must  be  on  the  stroke  of  midnight. 

The  Queen,  as  he  could  see,  lay  back  in  her  elbow- 
chair,  obviously  suffering,  picking  at  some  food  before  her, 
but  not  eating  any.  Her  lips  were  chapped  and  dry ;  she 
moistened  them  continually,  then  bit  them.  Lady  Argyll, 


240 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


handsome,  strong-featured,  and  swarthy,  sat  bolt  upright 
and  stared  at  the  sconce  on  the  wall ;  and  as  for  the 
Italian,  he  did  as  he  always  did,  lounged  opposite  his 
Queen,  his  head  against  the  wainscot.  Reflective  after 
food,  he  used  his  toothpick,  but  no  other  ceremony  what¬ 
soever.  He  wore  his  cap  on  his  head,  ignored  Lady 
Argyll  —  half-sister  to  the  throne  —  and  when  he  looked  at 
her  Majesty,  as  he  often  did,  it  was  as  a  man  might  look 
at  his  wife.  She,  although  she  seemed  too  weary  or  too 
indifferent  to  lift  her  heavy  eyelids,  knew  perfectly  well 
that  both  her  companions  were  watching  her :  Des-Essars 
was  sure  of  that.  He  watched  her  himself  intensely,  and 
only  once  saw  her  meet  Davy’s  eye,  when  she  passed  her 
cup  to  him  to  be  filled  with  drink,  and  he,  as  if  thankful 
to  be  active,  poured  the  wine  with  a  flourish  and  smiled  in 
her  face  as  he  served  her.  She  observed  both  act  and 
actor,  and  made  no  sign,  neither  drank  from  the  cup  now 
she  had  it ;  but  sank  back  to  her  wretchedness  and  the 
contemplation  of  it,  being  in  that  pettish,  brooding  habit 
of  mind  which  would  rather  run  on  in  a  groove  of  pain 
than  brace  itself  to  some  new  shift.  As  he  watched  what 
was  a  familiar  scene  to  him,  Des-Essars  was  wondering 
whether  he  should  dare  go  in  and  report  what  he  had 
observed  in  the  hall.  No !  on  the  whole  he  would  not  do 
that.  Signior  Davy,  who  was  a  weasel  in  such  a  field  as 
a  young  man’s  mind,  would  assuredly  fasten  upon  him  at 
some  false  turn  or  other,  never  let  go,  and  show  no  mercy. 
Like  all  the  underlings  of  Holyrood  he  went  in  mortal  fear 
of  the  Italian,  though,  unlike  any  of  them,  he  admired 
him. 

The  little  cabinet  was  very  dim.  There  were  candles 
on  the  table,  but  none  alight  in  the  sconces.  From 
beyond,  through  a  half-open  door,  came  the  drowsy  voices 
of  the  Queen’s  women,  murmuring  their  way  through  two 
more  hours’  vigil.  Interminable  nights!  Cards  would 
follow  supper,  you  must  know,  and  Signior  Davy  would 
try  to  outsit  Lady  Argyll.  He  always  tried,  and  generally 
succeeded. 

The  Queen  shifted,  sighed,  and  played  hasty  tunes  with 
her  fingers  on  the  table  :  she  was  never  still.  It  was 


CH.  V 


MIDNIGHT  EXPERIENCES 


241 


evident  that  she  was  at  once  very  wretched  and  very 
irritable.  Her  dark-red  gown  was  cut  low  and  square, 
Venetian  mode :  Des-Essars  could  see  quite  well  how 
short  her  breath  was,  and  how  quick.  Yet  she  said 
nothing.  Once  she  and  Lady  Argyll  exchanged  glances ; 
the  Mistress  of  the  Robes  inquired  with  her  eyebrows,  the 
Queen  fretfully  shook  the  question  away.  It  was  an  un¬ 
happy  supper  for  all  but  the  graceless  Italian,  who  was 
much  at  his  ease  now  that  he  had  unfastened  some  of  the 
hooks  of  his  jacket.  The  French  lad,  who  had  always 
been  in  love  with  his  mistress  and  yet  able  to  criticise  her 
—  as  a  Protestant  may  adore  the  Virgin  Mary  —  admits 
that  at  this  moment  of  her  life,  in  this  bitter  mood,  he 
found  her  extremely  piquant.  ‘  This  pale,  helpless,  angry, 
pretty  woman  !  ’  he  exclaims  upon  his  page.  He  would 
seldom  allow  that  she  was  more  than  just  a  pretty  woman ; 
and  now  she  was  a  good  deal  less.  Her  charms  for  him 
had  never  been  of  the  face  —  she  had  an  allure  of  her  own. 
‘  Mistress  Seton  was  lovely,  I  consider,  my  Lady  Bothwell 
most  beautiful,  and  Mistress  Fleming  not  far  short  of  that : 
but  the  Queen’s  Majesty  —  ah  !  the  coin  from  Mr.  Knox’s 
mint  rang  true.  Honeypot!  Honeypot!  There  you  had 
her  essence:  sleepy,  slow,  soft  sweetness  —  with  a  sharp 
aftertaste,  for  all  that,  to  prick  the  tongue  and  set  it 
longing.’ 

More  than  nice  considerations,  these,  which  the  stealthy 
opening  of  a  door  and  a  step  in  the  passage  disturbed. 
Des-Essars  would  have  straightened  himself  on  that  signal, 
to  stand  as  a  page  should  stand  in  the  view  of  any  one 
entering.  Then  he  saw,  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  the 
King  go  down  the  little  stair.  It  must  be  the  King, 
because  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  tall  figure,  small-headed  as 
it  was,  —  he  had  seen  the  long  white  gown.  The  King 
wore  a  white  quilted-silk  bedgown,  lined  with  ermine.  At 
the  turning  of  the  stair  Des-Essars  saw  him  just  glance 
backwards  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  cabinet,  but, 
being  stiff  within  the  shadow  of  the  curtain,  was  not 
himself  seen.  After  that  furtive  look  he  saw  him  go  down 
the  privy  stair,  his  hand  on  the  rope.  Obviously  he  had 
an  assignation  with  some  woman  below. 

Q 


242 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


Before  he  had  time  to  correct  this  conclusion  by  the 
memory  of  the  cloaked  men  in  the  hall,  he  heard  returning 
steps  —  somebody,  this  time,  coming  up  the  steps ;  no ! 
there  were  more  than  one  —  two  or  three  at  least.  He  was 
sure  of  this  —  his  ears  had  never  deceived  him  —  and  yet  it 
was  the  King  alone  who  appeared  at  the  stair-head  with  a 
lighted  taper  in  his  hand,  which  he  must  have  got  from 
the  hall.  He  stood  there  for  a  moment,  his  face  showing 
white  and  strained  in  the  light,  his  mouth  open,  too ;  then, 
blowing  out  his  taper,  he  came  directly  to  the  curtain  of 
the  Queen’s  cabinet,  pulled  it  aside  and  went  in.  He  had 
actually  covered  Des-Essars  with  the  curtain  without  a 
notion  that  he  was  there ;  but  the  youth  had  had  time  to 
observe  that  he  was  fully  dressed  beneath  his  gown,  and  to 
get  a  hot  whiff  of  the  strong  waters  in  his  breath  as  he 
passed  in.  Urgent  to  see  what  all  this  might  mean,  he 
peeped  through  the  hangings. 

Lady  Argyll  rose  up  slowly  when  she  saw  the  King, 
but  made  no  reverence.  Very  few  did  in  these  days. 
The  Italian  followed  her  example,  perfectly  composed. 
The  Queen  took  no  notice  of  him.  She  rested  as  she  had 
been,  her  head  on  the  droop,  eyebrows  raised,  eyes  fixed 
on  the  disordered  platter.  The  King,  whose  colour  was 
very  high,  came  behind  her  chair,  stooped,  and  put  his  arm 
round  her.  His  hand  covered  her  bosom.  She  did  not 
avoid,  though  she  did  not  relish  this. 

‘  Madam,  it  is  very  late,’  he  said,  and  spoke  breathlessly. 

‘  It  is  not  I  who  detain  you,’  said  she. 

‘  No,  madam,  no.  But  you  do  detain  these  good 
servants  of  yours.  Here  is  your  sister  of  Argyll ;  next 
door  are  your  women.  And  so  it  is  night  after  night.  I 
think  not  of  myself.’ 

She  lifted  her  head  a  little  to  look  up  sideways — but 
not  at  him.  ‘You  think  of  very  little  else,  to  my  under¬ 
standing.  Having  brought  me  to  the  state  where  now  I 
am,  you  are  inclined  to  leave  me  alone.  Rather,  you 
were  inclined  ;  for  this  is  a  new  humour,  little  to  my  taste.’ 

‘  I  should  be  oftener  here,  believe  me,’  says  the  King, 
still  embracing  her,  ‘  if  I  could  feel  more  sure  of  a  welcome 
—  if  all  might  be  again  as  it  was  once  between  you  and  me.’ 


CH.  V 


MIDNIGHT  EXPERIENCES 


243 


She  laughed,  without  mirth;  then  asked,  4  And  how 
was  it  —  once  ?  ’ 

The  King  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  forehead,  by  the 
same  act  gently  pushing  back  her  head  till  it  rested  on 
his  shoulder. 

‘Thus  it  was  once,  my  Mary,’  he  said;  and  as  she 
looked  up  into  his  face,  wondering  over  it,  searching  it, 
he  kissed  her  again.  ‘  Thus  it  was  once,’  he  repeated  in 
a  louder  voice;  and  then,  louder  yet,  ‘Thus,  O  Queen 
of  Scots !  ’ 

Once  more  he  kissed  her,  and  once  more  cried  out,  '  O 
Queen  of  Scots !  ’  Then  Des-Essars  heard  the  footsteps 
begin  again  on  the  privy  stair,  and  saw  men  come  into  the 
passage  —  many  men. 

Three  of  them,  in  cloaks  and  steel  bonnets,  came 
quickly  to  the  door,  and  passed  him.  They  went  through 
the  curtain.  These  three  were  Lord  Ruthven,  Ker  of 
Fawdonsyde,  and  Mr.  Archibald  Douglas.  Rigid  in  his 
shadow,  Des-Essars  watched  all. 

Seeing  events  in  the  Italian’s  eyes,  rather  than  with 
her  own  —  for  Signior  Davy  had  narrowed  his  to  two 
threads  of  blue  —  the  Queen  lifted  her  head  from  her 
husband’s  arm  and  looked  curiously  round.  The  three 
stood  hesitant  within  the  door ;  Ruthven  had  his  cap  on 
his  head,  Fawdonsyde  his,  but  Archie  showed  his  grey 
poll.  Little  things  like  these  angered  her  quickly ;  she 
shook  free  from  the  King  and  sat  upright. 

‘  What  is  this,  my  Lord  Ruthven  ?  You  forget 
yourself.’ 

‘Madam - ’  he  began;  but  Douglas  nudged  him 

furiously. 

‘  Your  bonnet,  man,  your  bonnet !  ’ 

The  Queen  had  risen,  and  the  fixed  direction  of  her 
eyes  gave  him  understanding. 

‘Ah,  my  knapscall !  I  do  as  others  do,  madam,’  he 
said,  with  a  meaning  look  at  the  Italian.  ‘What  is 
pleasant  to  your  Majesty  in  yonder  servant  should  not 
be  an  offence  in  a  councillor.’ 

‘No,  no,  ma'am,  nor  it  should  not,’  muttered  Fawdon¬ 
syde,  who,  nevertheless,  doffed  his  bonnet. 


244 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


The  King  was  holding  her  again,  she  staring  still  at 
the  scowling  man  in  steel.  ‘  What  do  you  want  with  me, 
Ruthven  ?  ’  she  said.  She  had  very  dry  lips. 

He  made  a  clumsy  bow.  ‘  May  it  please  your  Majesty,’ 
he  said,  ‘  we  are  come  to  rid  you  of  this  fellow  Davy,  who 
has  been  overlong  familiar  here,  and  overmuch  —  for  your 
Majesty’s  honour.’ 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  King,  whose  arm  still  held 
her  —  a  white,  strong  face. 

‘You,’  she  said  fiercely,  ‘what  have  you  to  do  in  this? 
What  have  you  to  say  ?  ’ 

‘  I  think  with  Ruthven  —  with  all  of  them  —  my  friends 
and  well-wishers.  ’Tis  the  common  voice  :  they  say  I  am 
betrayed,  upon  my  soul !  I  cannot  endure  —  I  entreat  you 
to  trust  me - ’  He  was  incoherent. 

She  broke  away  from  his  arm,  took  a  step  forward  and 
put  herself  between  him  and  the  three.  She  was  so  angry 
that  she  could  not  find  words.  She  stammered,  began  to 
speak,  rejected  what  words  came.  The  Italian  took  off 
his  cap  and  watched  Ruthven  intently.  The  moment  of 
pause  that  ensued  was  broken  by  Ruthven’s  raising  his 
hand,  for  the  Queen  flashed  out,  ‘  Put  down  your  hand, 
sir  !  ’  and  seemed  as  if  she  would  have  struck  him.  Faw- 
donsyde  here  cocked  his  pistol  and  deliberately  raised  it 
against  the  Queen’s  person.  ‘  Treason  !  treason !  ’  shrieked 
Des-Essars  from  the  curtain,  and  blundered  forward  to  the 
villain. 

But  the  Queen  had  been  before  him  ;  at  last  she  had 
found  words,  and  deeds.  She  drew  herself  up,  quivering, 
went  directly  towards  Fawdonsyde,  and  beat  down  the 
point  of  the  pistol  with  her  flat  hand.  ‘  Do  you  dare  so 
much  ?  Then  I  dare  more.  What  shameless  thing  do 

you  here  ?  If  I  had  a  sword  in  my  hand - ’  Here  she 

stopped,  tongue-tied  at  what  was  done  to  her. 

For  Ruthven,  regardless  of  majesty,  had  got  her  round 
the  middle.  He  pushed  her  back  into  the  King’s  arms ; 
and,  ‘Take  your  wife,  my  lord,’  says  he  ;  ‘take  your  good- 
wife  in  your  arms  and  cherish  her,  while  we  do  what  must 
be  done.’ 

The  King  held  her  fast  in  spite  of  her  struggles.  At 


CH.  V 


MIDNIGHT  EXPERIENCES 


245 


that  moment  the  Italian  made  a  rattling  sound  in  his 
throat  and  backed  from  the  table.  Archie  Douglas 
stepped  behind  the  King,  to  get  round  the  little  room; 
Ruthven  approached  his  victim  from  the  other  side ;  the 
Italian  pulled  at  the  table,  got  it  between  himself  and  the 
enemy,  and  overset  it :  then  Lady  Argyll  screamed,  and 
snatched  at  a  candlestick  as  all  went  down.  It  was  the 
only  light  left  in  the  room,  held  up  in  her  hand  like  a 
beacon  above  a  tossing  sea.  Where  was  Des-Essars  ? 
Cuffed  aside  to  the  wall,  like  a  rag  doll.  The  maids  were 
packed  in  the  door  of  the  bedchamber,  and  one  of  them 
had  pulled  him  into  safety  among  them. 

All  that  followed  he  marked :  how  the  frenzied  Italian, 
hedged  in  between  Douglas  and  Ruthven,  vaulted  the 
table,  knocked  over  Fawdonsyde,  and  then,  whimpering 
like  a  woman,  crouched  by  the  Queen,  his  fingers  in  the 
pleats  of  her  gown.  He  saw  the  King’s  light  eyelashes 
blink,  and  heard  his  breath  come  whistling  through  his 
nose ;  and  that  pale,  disfigured  girl,  held  up  closely  against 
her  husband,  moaning  and  hiding  her  face  in  his  breast. 
And  now  Ruthven,  grinning  horribly,  swearing  to  himself, 
and  Douglas,  whining  like  a  dog  at  a  rat-hole,  were  at 
their  man’s  hands,  trying  to  drag  him  off.  Fawdonsyde 
hovered  about,  hopeful  to  help.  Lady  Argyll  held  up  the 
candle. 

Douglas  wrenched  open  one  hand,  Ruthven  got  his 
head  down  and  bit  the  other  till  it  parted. 

‘  O  Dio  !  O  Dio  !  ’  long  shuddering  cries  went  up  from 
the  Italian  as  they  dragged  him  out  into  the  passage, 
where  the  others  waited. 

It  was  dark  there,  and  one  knew  not  how  full  of  men ; 
but  Des-Essars  heard  them  snarling  and  mauling  like  a 
pack  of  wolves ;  heard  the  scuffling,  the  panting,  the  short 
oaths  —  and  then  a  piercing  scream.  At  that  there  was 
silence ;  then  some  one  said,  as  he  struck,  ‘  There !  there  ! 
Hog  of  Turin  !  ’  and  another  (Lindsay),  ‘  He’s  done.’ 

The  King  put  the  Queen  among  her  maids  in  a  hurry, 
and  went  running  out  into  the  passage  as  they  were 
shuffling  the  body  down  the  stair.  Des-Essars  just 
noticed,  and  remembered  afterwards,  his  naked  dagger  in 


246 


THE  QUEEN'S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


his  hand  as  he  went  out  helter-skelter  after  his  friends. 
Upon  some  instinct  or  other,  he  followed  him  as  far  as  the 
head  of  the  stair.  From  the  bottom  came  up  a  great 
clamour  —  howls  of  execration,  one  or  two  cries  for  the 
King,  a  round  of  welcome  when  he  appeared.  The  page 
ran  back  to  the  cabinet,  and  found  it  dark. 

It  was  bad  to  hear  the  Queen’s  laughter  in  the  bed¬ 
chamber —  worse  when  that  shuddered  out  into  moaning, 
and  she  began  to  wail  as  if  she  were  keening  her  dead. 
He  could  not  bear  it,  so  crept  out  again  to  spy  about  the 
passages  and  listen  to  the  shouting  from  the  hall.  ‘  A 
Douglas  !  a  Douglas  !  ’  was  the  most  common  cry.  Peep¬ 
ing  through  a  window  which  gave  on  to  the  front,  he  saw 
the  snowy  court  ablaze  with  torches,  alive  with  men,  and 
against  the  glare  the  snowflakes  whirling  by,  like  smuts 
from  a  burning  chimney.  It  was  clear  enough  now  that 
the  palace  was  held,  all  its  inmates  prisoners.  But  what 
seemed  more  terrifying  than  that  was  the  emptiness  of  the 
upper  corridors,  the  sudden  hush  after  so  much  riot  —  and 
the  Queen’s  moan,  haunting  all  the  dark  like  a  lost  soul. 

It  was  so  bad  up  there  that  the  lad,  his  brain  on  fire, 
felt  the  need  of  any  company  —  even  that  of  gaolers.  No 
one  hindering,  he  crept  down  the  privy  stair,  —  horribly 
slippery  it  was,  and  he  knew  why,  —  hoping  to  spy  into  the 
hall ;  and  this  also  he  was  free  to  do,  since  the  stair-foot 
was  now  unguarded.  He  found  the  hall  crowded  with 
men  ;  great  torches  smoking  to  the  rafters ;  a  glow  of  light 
on  shields  and  blazonry,  the  banners  and  achievements  of 
dead  kings.  In  the  stir  of  business  the  arras  surged  like 
the  waves  of  the  sea.  A  furious  draught  blew  in  from  the 
open  doors,  to  which  all  faces  were  turned.  Men  craned 
over  each  others’  backs  to  look  there.  Des-Essars  could 
not  see  the  King ;  but  there  at  the  entry  was  the  Earl  of 
Morton  in  his  armour,  two  linkmen  by  him.  He  was  read¬ 
ing  from  a  bill :  in  front  of  him  was  a  clear  way ;  across 
it  stood  the  Masters  of  Lindsay  and  Ruthven,  and  men  in 
their  liveries,  halberds  in  their  hands. 

‘Pass  out,  Earl  of  Atholl,’  he  heard  Lord  Morton  say; 
‘Pass  out,  Lord  of  Tullibardine  ’ :  and  then,  after  a  while 


CH.  V 


MIDNIGHT  EXPERIENCES 


247 


of  looking  and  pointing,  he  saw  the  grizzled  head  and 
square  shoulders  of  my  Lord  Atholl  moving  down  the  lane 
of  men,  young  Tullibardine  uncovered  beside  him. 

‘Pass  out,  Pitcur;  pass  out,  Mr.  James  Balfour;  pass 
out,  the  Lord  Herries.’  The  same  elbowing  in  the  crowd : 
three  men  file  out  into  the  scurrying  snow  —  all  the  Queen’s 
friends,  observe. 

Near  to  Des-Essars  a  man  asked  of  his  neighbour 
‘Will  they  let  by  my  Lord  Huntly,  think  you?’ 

The  other  shook  his  head.  ‘Never!  He’ll  keep  com¬ 
pany  with  the  Reiver  of  Liddesdale,  be  sure.’ 

The  Reiver  was  Lord  Bothwell,  of  course,  whom  Des- 
Essars  knew  to  be  in  the  house.  ‘  Good  fellow-prisoners 
for  us,’  he  thought. 

‘  Pass  out,  Mr.  Secretary,  on  a  fair  errand.’ 

There  was  some  murmuring  at  this;  but  the  man  went 
out  unmolested,  with  a  sweep  of  the  bonnet  to  my  Lord 
Morton  as  he  passed.  Des-Essars  saw  him  stop  at  the 
first  taste  of  the  weather  and  cover  his  mouth  with  his 
cloak  —  but  he  waited  for  no  more.  A  thought  had  struck 
him.  He  slipped  back  up  the  puddled  stair,  gained  the 
first  corridor,  and,  knowing  his  way  by  heart,  went  in  and 
out  of  the  passages  until  he  came  to  a  barred  door.  Here 
he  put  his  ear  to  the  crack  and  listened  intently. 

For  a  long  time  he  could  hear  nothing  on  either  side 
the  door  ;  but  by  and  by  somebody  with  a  light  —  a  man  — - 
came  to  the  farther  end  of  the  passage  and  looked  about, 
raising  and  dipping  his  lantern.  That  was  an  ugly 
moment !  Crouched  against  the  wall,  he  saw  the  lamp 
now  high  now  low,  and  marked  with  a  leaping  heart  how 
nearly  the  beams  reached  to  where  he  lay.  He  heard  a 
movement  behind  the  door,  too,  but  had  to  let  it  go.  Not 
for  full  three  minutes  after  the  disappearance  of  the 
watchman  did  he  dare  put  his  knuckles  to  the  door, 
and  tap,  very  softly,  at  the  panel.  He  tapped  and  tapped. 
A  board  creaked;  there  was  breathing  at  the  door.  A 
voice,  shamming  boldness,  cried,  ‘  Qui  est?’ 

Des-Essars  smiled.  ‘  C’est  toi,  Paris  ?  ’ 

His  question  was  answered  by  another.  ‘  Tiens,  qui  est 
ce  drole  ?  ’ 


248 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


Paris,  for  a  thousand  pound !  Knocking  again,  he 
declared  himself.  ‘It  is  I,  Paris  —  M.  Des-Essars.’ 

‘  Monsieur  Baptiste,  your  servant,’  then  said  Paris 
through  the  door. 

‘  My  lord  is  a  prisoner,  Paris  ?  ’ 

‘  Not  for  the  first  time,  my  dear  sir.’ 

‘  How  many  are  you  there  ?  ’ 

‘  Four.  My  lord,  and  Monsieur  de  Huntly,  myself, 
Jock  Gordon.’ 

‘  Well,  you  should  get  out  —  but  quickly,  before  they 
have  finished  in  the  hall.  They  are  passing  men  out.  Be 
quick,  Paris  —  tell  my  lord.’ 

‘  Bravo  !  ’  says  Paris.  ‘  We  should  get  out  —  and  quickly  ! 
By  the  chimney,  sir  ?  There  is  no  chimney.  By  the 
window  ?  There  is  but  one  death  for  every  man,  and  one 
neck  to  be  broke.’ 

‘You  will  break  no  necks  at  all,  you  fool.  Below  these 
windows  is  the  lions’  house.’ 

Paris  thought.  ‘  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  ’ 

‘  Sure  !  Oh,  Paris,  make  haste  !  ’ 

Again  Paris  appeared  to  reflect ;  and  then  he  said,  ‘  If 
you  are  betraying  a  countryman  of  yours,  M.  Des-Essars, 
and  your  old  patron  also,  you  shall  never  see  God.’ 

Des-Essars  wrung  his  hands.  ‘You  fool!  you  fool! 
Are  you  mad  ?  Call  my  lord.’ 

‘  Wait,’  said  Paris.  In  a  short  time,  the  sound  of  heavy 
steps.  Ah,  here  was  my  lord  ! 

‘  ’Tis  yourself,  Baptist  ?  ’ 

‘  Yes,  yes,  my  lord.’ 

‘  Have  they  finished  with  Davy  ?  * 

‘  My  God,  sir  !  ’ 

‘  What  of  the  Queen  ?  ’ 

‘  Her  women  have  her.’ 

‘Now,  Baptist.  You  say  the  lion-house  is  below  these 
windows.  Which  windows  ?  There  are  four.’ 

‘The  two  in  the  midst,  my  lord.  My  lord,  across  the 
Little  Garden  —  in  a  straight  line  —  there  are  holes  in  the 
wall.’ 

‘  Oho  !  You  are  a  brave  lad.  Go  to  your  bed.’ 

Jean-Marie-Baptiste  Des-Essars  went  back  to  the 


CH.  V 


MIDNIGHT  EXPERIENCES 


249 


Queen’s  side.  At  the  door  of  the  cabinet  he  found  Adam 
Gordon  in  a  fit  of  sobs.  ‘  Oh,  my  fine  man,’  says  the 
French  lad,  stirring  him  with  his  foot,  ‘leave  tears  to  the 
women.  This  is  men’s  business.’ 

Adam  lifted  up  his  stricken  face.  ‘Where  have  you 
been  cowering,  traitor  ?  ’ 

Jean-Marie  laughed  grimly.  ‘  I  have  been  saving 
Scotland,’  he  said,  ‘  whilst  you  were  blubbering  here.’ 

i  Adam  Gordon,  being  up  by  now,  knocked  Jean-Marie 
down. 

‘  I  excused  him  readily,  however,’  he  writes  in  his 
Memoirs,  ‘  considering  the  agitation  we  all  suffered  at  the 
time.  And  where  he  felled  me  there  I  lay,  and  slept  like 
a  child.’ 


CHAPTER  VI 

VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS 

Sir  James  Melvill,  whom  readers  must  remember  at 
Saint  Andrews  as  a  shrewd,  elderly  courtier,  expert  in 
diplomacy  and  not  otherwise  without  humours  of  a  dry  sort, 
plumed  himself  upon  habit — ‘Dear  Mother  Use-and-Wont,’ 
as  he  used  to  say.  A  man  is  sane  at  thirty,  rich  at  forty, 
wise  at  fifty,  or  never ;  and  what  health  exacts,  wealth 
secures,  and  wisdom  requires,  is  the  orderly,  punctual 
performance  of  the  customary.  You  may  have  him  now 
putting  his  theory  into  severest  practice:  for  though  he  had 
seen  what  was  to  be  seen  during  that  night  of  murder  and 
alarm,  though  he  had  lain  down  to  sleep  in  his  cloak  no 
earlierthan  five  o’clock  in  the  small  hours,  by  seven,  which  was 
his  Sunday  time,  he  was  up  and  about,  stamping  his  booted 
feet  to  get  the  blood  down,  flacking  his  arms,  and  talking 
encouragement  to  himself — as,  ‘Hey,  my  bonny  man,  how’s 
a’  with  you  the  morn  ?  ’  Very  soon  after  you  might  have  seen 
him  over  the  ashes  of  the  fire,  raking  for  red  embers  and 
blowing  some  life  into  them  with  his  frosted  breath.  All 
about  lay  his  snoring  fellows,  though  it  was  too  dark  to  see 
them.  Every  man  lay  that  night  where  he  could  find  his 
length,  and  slept  like  the  dead  in  their  graves.  There 
seemed  no  soul  left  in  a  body  but  in  his  own. 

He  went  presently  to  the  doors,  thinking  to  open  them 
unhindered.  But  no !  a  sitting  sentry  barred  the  way  with 
a  halberd.  ‘  May  one  not  look  at  the  weather,  my  fine 
young  man  ?  ’  says  Sir  James. 

250 


VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS 


CH.  VI 


251 


‘  ’Tis  as  foul  as  the  grave,  master,  and  a  black  black  frost. 
No  way  out  the  now.’ 

Sir  James,  who  intended  to  get  out,  threw  his  cloak  over 
his  shoulder  and  gravely  paced  the  hall  until  the  chances 
should  mend.  One  has  not  warred  with  the  Margrave, 
held  a  hand  at  cards  with  the  Emperor  Charles  at  Inn- 
spruck,  loitered  at  Greenwich  in  attendance  upon  Queen 
Elizabeth,  or  endured  the  King  of  France  in  one  of  his 
foaming  rages,  without  learning  patience.  He  proposed 
to  walk  steadily  up  and  down  the  hall  until  nine  o’clock. 
Then  he  would  get  out. 


The  women  said  afterwards  that  the  Queen  had  quieted 
down  very  soon,  dried  her  eyes,  gone  to  bed,  and  slept 
almost  immediately  ‘as  calm  as  a  babe  new-born.’  How¬ 
ever  that  may  be,  she  awoke  as  early,  as  Sir  James,  and, 
finding  herself  in  Mary  Fleming’s  arms,  awoke  her  too  in 
her  ordinary  manner  by  biting  her  shoulder,  not  hard.  ‘  My 
lamb,  my  lamb !  ’  cooed  the  maid ;  but  the  Queen  in  a 
brisk  voice  said,  ‘  What’s  o’clock  ?  ’  The  lamp  showed  it 
to  be  gone  seven. 

The  Queen  said :  ‘  Get  up,  child,  and  find  me  the  page 
who  was  in  the  cabinet  last  night.  I  saw  him  try  the  entry, 
and  he  ran  in  when  —  when  ...  It  was  Baptist,  I  think.’ 

She  spoke  in  an  even  voice,  as  if  the  occasion  had 
been  a  card  party.  This  frightened  Mary  Fleming,  who 
began  to  quiver,  and  to  say,  ‘  Oh,  ma’am,  did  Baptist  see 
all  ?  ’Twill  have  scared  away  his  wits.’  And  then  she 
tried  coaxing.  ‘  Nay,  ma  Reuiette ,  but  you  must  rest 
awhile.  Come,  let  me  stroke  your  cheek  ’  —  a  common 
way  with  them  of  inviting  sleep  to  her. 

But  the  Queen  said,  ‘  I  have  had  too  much  stroking  — 
too  much.  Now  do  as  I  bid  you.’  So  the  maid  clothed 
herself  in  haste  and  went  out  with  a  lamp. 

Outside  the  door  she  found  the  two  youths  asleep  — 
Des-Essars  on  the  floor,  Gordon  by  the  table  —  and 
awoke  them  both.  ‘  Which  of  you  was  on  the  door  last 
night  ?  ’ 

‘  It  was  I,  Mistress  Fleming,’  said  the  foreigner.  ‘  All 
the  time  I  was  there.’ 


252 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


‘  Come  with  me,  then.  You  are  sent  for.’ 

He  followed  her  in  high  excitement  into  the  Queen’s 
bedchamber.  There  he  saw  Margaret  Carwood  asleep  on 
her  back,  lying  on  the  floor ;  and  the  Queen  propped  up 
with  pillows,  a  white  silk  shift  upon  her  —  or  half  upon  her, 
for  one  shoulder  was  out  of  it.  She  looked  sharper,  more 
like  Circe,  than  she  had  done  since  her  discomforts  began  : 
very  intense,  very  pale,  very  black  in  the  eyes.  And  she 
smiled  at  him  in  a  curiously  secret  way  —  a  beckoning, 
fluttering  of  the  lips,  as  if  she  shared  intelligence  with 
him,  and  told  him  so  by  signs.  ‘  She  was  as  sharp  and 
hard  and  bright  as  a  cut  diamond,’  he  writes  of  this 
appearance  ;  ‘  nor  do  I  suppose  that  any  lady  in  the  storied 
world  could  have  turned  her  face  away  from  a  night  of 
terror  and  blood,  towards  a  day-to-come  of  insult,  chains 
and  degradation,  as  she  turned  hers  now  before  my  very 
eyes.’ 

She  did  not  say  anything  for  a  while,  but  considered 
him  absorbingly,  with  those  fever-bright  eyes  and  that 
cautious  smile,  until  she  had  made  up  her  mind.  He,  of 
course,  was  down  on  his  knee ;  Mary  Fleming,  beside 
him,  stood  —  her  hand  just  touching  his  shoulder. 

‘Come  hither,  Jean-Marie.’ 

Approaching,  he  knelt  by  the  bed. 

‘  No,’  said  she,  ‘stand  up  —  closer.  Now  give  me  your 
hand.’ 

He  held  it  out,  and  she  took  it  in  her  own,  and  put  it 
against  her  side.  He  simply  gazed  at  her  in  wonder. 

‘  Tell  me  now  if  you  feel  my  heart  beating.’ 

He  waited.  ‘  No,  madam,’  said  he  then,  whispering. 

‘Think  again.’ 

He  did.  ‘  No,  madam.  Ah!  pardon.  Yes,  I  feel  it.’ 

‘  That  will  do.’ 

He  whipped  back  his  hand  and  put  it  behind  him.  It 
had  been  the  right  hand.  The  Queen  watched  all,  still 
smiling  in  that  wise  new  way  of  hers. 

‘Now,’  she  said,  ‘I  think  you  will  serve  me,  since 
you  have  assured  yourself  that  I  am  not  so  disturbed  as 
you  are.  I  wish  you  to  find  out  where  they  have  put 
him.’ 


ch.  vi  VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS  253 

He  felt  Mary  Fleming  start  and  catch  at  her  breath  ;  but 
to  him  the  question  seemed  very  natural. 

‘  I  will  go  now,  madam.’ 

‘  Yes.  Go  now.  Be  secret  and  speedy,  and  come  back 
to  me.’ 

He  bowed,  rose  up,  and  went  tiptoe  out  of  that 
chamber  of  mystery  and  sharp  sweetness.  Just  beyond 
the  door  Adam  Gordon  pounced  on  him  and  caught  him 
by  the  neck.  He  struggled  fiercely,  tried  to  bite. 

‘Let  me  go,  let  me  go,  you  silly  fool,  and  worse!  I’m 
on  service.  Oh,  my  God,  let  me  go  !  ’ 

‘  How  does  she?  Speak  it,  you  French  thief.’ 

‘  Dieu  de  Dieu  !  ’  he  panted,  ‘  I  shall  stab  you.’ 

At  once  his  hands  were  pinned  to  the  wall,  and  he 
crucified.  He  told  his  errand  —  since  time  was  all  in  all  — 
with  tears  of  rage. 

‘  I  shall  go  with  you,’  says  Adam.  ‘  We  will  go  together.’ 

In  the  entry  of  the  Chapel  Royal,  near  the  kings’ 
tombs,  they  found  what  seemed  to  be  a  new  grave.  A 
loose  flagstone  —  scatter  of  gravel  all  about  —  the  stone  not 
level :  one  end,  in  fact,  projected  its  whole  thickness  above 
the  floor. 

‘There  he  lies,’  says  Adam.  ‘What  more  do  you 
want  ?  ’ 

Des-Essars  was  tugging  at  the  stone.  ‘It  moves,  it 
moves !  ’  He  was  crimson  in  the  face. 

They  both  tussled  together :  it  gave  to  this  extent,  that 
they  got  the  lower  edge  clear  of  the  floor. 

‘  Hold  on  !  Keep  it  so  !  ’  snapped  Des-Essars  suddenly. 

He  dropped  on  to  his  stomach  and  thrust  his  arm  into 
the  crack,  up  to  the  elbow. 

I  What  are  you  at  ?  Be  sharp,  man,  or  I  shall  drop  it !  ’ 
cried  Adam  in  distress. 

He  was  sharp.  In  a  moment  he  had  withdrawn  his 
hand,  jumped  up  and  away,  and  was  pelting  to  the  stairs. 
Adam  let  the  great  stone  down  with  a  thud  and  was  after 
him.  He  was  stopped  at  the  Queen’s  door  by  a  maid  — 
Seton. 

‘  Less  haste,  Mr.  Adam.  You  cannot  enter.  Her 
Majesty  is  busy.’ 


254 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


Des-Essars  had  found  the  Queen  waiting  for  him  — 
nobody  else  in  the  room. 

‘  Well  ?  You  saw  it  ?  ’ 

‘  I  have  seen  a  grave,  madam.* 

*  Well  ?  ’ 

‘  It  is  a  new  grave.’ 

‘  There’s  nothing  in  that,  boy.’ 

‘  Monsieur  David  is  in  there,  ma’am.* 

Her  quick  eyes  narrowed.  How  she  peered  at  him ! 
‘  How  do  you  know  ?  ’ 

‘  Madam,  I  lifted  up  the  stone.  No  one  was  about.’ 

‘  Well  ?  ’ 

‘  I  found  something  under  it.  I  have  it.  I  am  therefore 
quite  sure.’ 

‘  What  did  you  find  ?  Let  me  see  it.’ 

He  plucked  out  of  his  breast  a  glittering  thing  and  laid 
it  on  the  bed. 

‘  Behold  it,  madam  !  ’  Folding  his  arms,  he  watched  it 
where  it  lay. 

The  Queen  stared  down  at  a  naked  dagger.  A  longish, 
lean,  fluted  blade ;  and  upon  the  bevelled  edge  a  thick 
smear,  half  its  length. 

She  did  not  touch  it,  but  moved  her  lips  as  if  she  were 
talking  to  it.  ‘  Do  I  know  you,  dagger  ?  Have  we  been 
friends,  dagger,  old  friends  —  and  now  you  play  me  a  trick?  ’ 
She  turned  to  Des-Essars.  ‘  You  know  that  dagger  ?  ’ 

‘  Yes,  ma’am.’  He  had  seen  it  often,  and  no  later  than 
last  night,  and  then  in  hand. 

‘  That  will  do,’  said  she.  ‘  Leave  me  now.  Send 
Fleming  and  Seton  —  and  Carwood  also.  I  shall  rise.’ 

When  he  was  gone  her  face  changed  —  grew  softer,  more 
thoughtful.  Now  she  held  out  her  hand  daintily,  the  little 
finger  high  above  the  others,  and  with  the  tips  of  two 
daintily  touched  the  dagger.  She  was  rather  horrible  — 
like  a  creature  of  the  woods  at  night,  an  elf  or  a  young 
witch,  playing  with  a  corpse.  She  laughed  quietly  to 
herself  as  she  fingered  the  stained  witness  of  so  much 
terror  ;  but  then,  when  she  heard  them  at  the  door,  picked 
it  up  by  the  handle  and  put  it  under  the  bedclothes.  No 
one  was  to  know  what  she  meant  to  do. 


CH.  VI 


VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS 


255 


The  women  came  in.  ‘  Dress  me,  Carwood,  and  quickly. 
Dolet,  have  you  my  bath  ready  ?  ’  ‘  Mais,  c’est  sur,  Majeste.’ 
They  poured  out  for  her  a  bath  of  hot  red  wine.  No  day 
of  her  life  passed  but  she  dipped  herself  in  that. 


At  nine  o  clock,  braced  into  fine  fettle  by  his  exercise, 
Sir  James  Melvill  went  again  to  the  hall  doors.  A  few 
shiverers  were  about  by  this  time,  for  sluggard  dawn  was 
gaping  at  the  windows ;  some  knelt  by  the  fire  which  his 
forethought  had  saved  for  them,  some  hugged  themselves 
in  corners  ;  one  man  was  praying  aloud  in  an  outlandish 
tongue,  praying  deeply  and  striking  his  forehead  with  his 
palm.  Sir  James,  not  to  be  deterred  by  prayers  or  spies, 
stepped  up  to  the  sentry,  a  new  man,  and  tapped  him  on 
the  breast.  ‘Now,  my  honest  friend,’  he  said  pleasantly, 
‘  I  have  waited  my  two  hours,  and  am  prepared  to  wait 
other  two.  But  he  to  whom  my  pressing  errand  is  must 
wait  no  longer.  I  speak  of  my  lord  of  Morton  —  your 
master  and  mine,  as  things  have  turned  out.’ 

‘  My  lord  will  be  here  by  the  ten  o’clock,  sir,’  says  the 
man. 

‘ 1  had  promised  him  exact  tidings  by  eight,’  replied  Sir 
James ,  and  spoke  so  serenely  that  he  was  allowed  to  pass 
the  doors,  which  were  shut  upon  him.  Nobody  could  have 
regretted  more  than  himself  that  he  had  lied :  he  had  no 
mortal  errand  to  the  Earl  of  Morton.  But  seeing  that  he 
had  not  failed  of  Sabbath  sermon  for  a  matter  of  fifteen 
years,  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  the  murder  of  an 
Italian  was  to  stay  him  now.  Sermon  in  Saint  Giles’s  was 
at  nine.  He  was  late. 

The  fates  were  adverse :  there  was  to  be  no  sermon  for 
him  that  Sabbath.  As  he  walked  gingerly  across  the 
Outer  Close  a  staid,  respectable,  Sunday  gentleman  — 
he  heard  a  casement  open  behind  him,  and  turning  sharply 
saw  the  Queen  at  her  chamber  window,  dressed  in  grey 
with  a  white  ruff,  and  holding  a  kerchief  against  her  neck. 
After  a  hasty  glance  about,  which  revealed  no  prying  eyes, 
he  made  a  low  reverence  to  her  Majesty. 

Sparkling  and  eager  as  she  looked,  she  nodded  her  head 
and  leaned  far  out  of  the  window.  ‘  Sir  James  Melvill,’  she 


256 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


called  down,  in  a  clear,  carrying  voice,  ‘  you  shall  do  me  a 
service  if  you  please.’ 

‘  God  save  your  Majesty,  and  I  do  please,’  says  Sir 
James. 

‘  Then  help  me  from  this  prison  where  now  I  am,’  she 
said.  ‘  Go  presently  to  the  Provost,  bid  him  convene  the 
town  and  come  to  my  rescue.  Go  presently,  I  say;  but 
run  fast,  good  sir,  for  they  will  stay  you  if  they  can.’ 

‘  Madam,  with  my  best  will  and  legs.’  He  saluted,  and 
walked  briskly  on  over  the  frozen  snow. 

Out  of  doors  after  him  came  a  long-legged  man  in  black, 
a  chain  about  his  neck,  a  staff  in  hand ;  following  him,  three 
or  four  lacqueys  in  a  dark  livery. 

‘  Ho,  Sir  James  Melvill !  Ho,  Sir  James  !  ’ 

He  was  by  this  time  at  the  Outer  Bailey,  which  stood 
open  for  him  —  three  paces  more  and  he  had  done  it.  But 
there  were  a  few  archers  lounging  about  the  door  of  the 
Guard  House,  and  two  who  crossed  and  recrossed  each 
other  before  the  gates.  ‘  Gently  doth  it,’  quoth  he,  and 
stayed  to  answer  his  name  to  the  long-legged  Chamberlain. 

‘  What  would  you,  Mr.  Wishart,  sir  ?  ’ 

‘  Sir  James,  my  lord  of  Ruthven  hath  required  me - ’ 

But  he  got  no  further. 

‘Your  lord  of  Ruthven?’  cried  Sir  James.  ‘Hath  he 
required  you  to  require  of  me,  Mr.  Wishart  ?  ’ 

‘  Why,  yes,  sir.  My  lord  would  be  pleased  to  know 
whither  you  are  bound  so  fast.  He  is,  sir,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  deputy  to  the  King’s  Majesty  at  this  time.’ 

Sir  James  blinked.  He  could  see  the  Queen  behind 
her  window,  watching  him.  ‘  I  am  bound,  sir,’  he  said 
deliberately,  ‘  whither  I  shall  hope  to  see  my  lord  of 
Ruthven  tending  anon.  The  sermon,  Mr.  Wishart,  the 
sermon  calls  me ;  the  which  I  have  not  foregone  these 
fifteen  years,  nor  will  not  to-day  unless  you  and  your 
requirements  keep  me  unduly.’ 

‘  I  told  my  lord  you  would  be  for  the  preaching,  Sir 
James.  I  was  sure  o’t.  But  he’s  a  canny  nobleman,  ye 
ken ;  and  the  King’s  business  is  before  a’.’ 

‘  I  have  never  heard,  Mr.  Wishart,  that  it  was  before  that 
of  the  King  of  kings,’  said  Sir  James. 


CH.  VI 


VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS 


257 


‘  Ou,  fie,  Sir  James  !  To  think  that  I  should  say  so  !  ’  — 
Mr.  Wishart  was  really  concerned  —  ‘  Nor  my  lord  neither, 
whose  acceptance  of  the  rock  of  doctrine  is  well  known.  I 
shall  just  pop  in  and  inform  my  lord.’ 

‘  Do  so.  And  I  wish  you  a  good  day,  Mr.  Wishart,’ 
says  Sir  James  in  a  stately  manner,  and  struck  out  of  the 
gates  and  up  the  hill. 

He  went  directly  to  the  Provost’s  house,  and  what  he 
learned  there  seemed  to  him  so  serious,  that  he  overstepped 
his  commission  by  a  little  way.  ‘Mr.  Provost,’  he  said, 
‘  you  tell  me  that  you  have  orders  from  the  King.  I 
counsel  you  to  disregard  them.  I  counsel  you  to  serve 
and  obey  your  sanctified  anointed  Queen.  The  King,  Mr. 
Provost,  is  her  Majesty’s  right  hand,  not  a  doubt  of  it;  but 
when  the  right  hand  knoweth  not  what  the  left  hand  is 
about,  it  is  safer  to  wait  until  the  pair  are  in  agreement 
again.  What  the  King  may  have  done  yesterday  he  may 
not  do  to-day — he  may  not  wish  it,  or  he  may  not  be 
capable  of  it.  I  am  a  simple  gentleman,  Mr.  Provost,  and 
you  are  a  high  officer,  steward  of  this  good  town.  I  counsel 
not  the  officer  in  you,  but  the  sober  burgess,  when  I  repeat 
that  what  may  have  been  open  to  the  King  yesterday  may 
be  shut  against  him  to-day.’ 

‘Good  guide  us,  Sir  James,  this  is  dangerous  work!’ 
cried  the  Provost.  ‘  Who’s  your  informant  in  the  matter  ?  ’ 

*  I  have  told  you  that  I  am  a  simple  gentleman,’  said 
Sir  James,  ‘  but  I  lied  to  you.  I  am  a  Queen’s  messenger : 
I  go  from  you  to  meet  her  Majesty’s  dearest  brother,  the 
good  Earl  of  Moray,  who  should  be  home  to-day.’ 

It  must  be  owned  that,  if  he  was  an  unwilling  liar,  he 
was  a  good  one.  He  lied  like  truth,  and  the  stroke  was 
masterly.  The  Provost  set  about  convening  the  town ; 
and  when  Sir  James  Melvill  walked  back  to  Holyrood  — 
after  sermon  —  all  the  gates  were  held  in  the  Queen’s 
name. 

He  did  not  see  her,  for  the  King  was  with  her  at  the 
time ;  but  Mary  Beaton  received  him,  heard  his  news  and 
reported  it.  She  returned  shortly  with  a  message  :  ‘  The 
Queen’s  thanks  to  Sir  James  Melvill.  Let  him  ride  the 
English  road  and  meet  the  Earl  of  Moray  by  her  Majesty’s 

R 


258 


BK.  II 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

desire.’  He  was  pleased  with  the  errand,  proud  to  serve 
the  Queen.  His  greatest  satisfaction,  however,  was  to 
reflect  that  he  had  not,  after  all,  lied  to  the  Provost  of 
Edinburgh. 

Now  we  go  back  to  Queen  Mary.  Bathed  and  powdered, 
dressed  and  coifed,  her  head  full  of  schemes  and  heart  high 
in  courage,  she  waited  for  the  King,  being  very  sure  in 
her  own  mind  that  he  would  come  if  she  made  no  sign. 
Certainly,  certainly  he  would  come :  she  had  reasoned  it 
all  out  as  she  lay  half  in  bed,  smiling  and  whispering  to 
the  dagger.  ‘  He  has  been  talked  into  this,  by  whom  I 
am  not  sure,  but  I  think  by  Ruthven  and  his  friends. 
They  will  never  stop  where  now  they  are,  but  will  urge 
him  further  than  he  cares  to  go.  I  believe  he  will  wait  to 
see  what  I  do.  He  is  not  bold  by  nature,  but  by  surges  of 
heat  which  drive  him.  Fast  they  drive  him — yet  they  leave 
him  soon  !  When  he  held  me  last  night  he  was  trembling 

I  felt  him  shake.  And  yet  — he  has  strong  arms,  and  the 
savour  of  a  man  is  upon  him  !  ’ 

She  sat  up,  with  her  hands  to  clasp  her  knee,  and  let 
her  thought  go  galloping  through  the  wild  business.  ‘I 
felt  the  child  leap  as  I  lay  on  his  breast !  Did  he  urge 
towards  the  King  his  father,  glad  of  his  manhood  ?  So, 
once  upon  a  day,  urged  I  towards  the  King  my  lord !  ’ 

She.  began  to  blush,  but  would  be  honest  with  herself. 

‘  And  if  he  came  again  to  me  now,  and  took  me  so  again 
in  his  arms  —  and  again  I  sensed  the  man  in  him  —  what 
should  I  do  ?  ’ 

She  looked  wise,  as  she  smiled  to  feel  her  eyes  grow 
dim.  But  then  she  shook  her  head.  ‘  He  will  come,  he 
will  come  —  but  not  so.  I  know  him  :  oh,  I  know  him  like 
a  thumbed  old  book !  And  when  I  bring  out  that  which 
I  have  here  ’  — her  hand  caressed  the  dagger —  ‘  I  know 
what  he  will  do.  Yes,  yes,  like  an  old  book !  He  will  rail 
against  his  betrayer,  and  in  turn  betray  him.  Ah,  my 

King,  my  King,  do  I  read  you  aright  ?  We  shall  see  very 
soon.’ 

She  looked  out  upon  the  snowy  close,  the  black  walls 
and  dun  pall  of  air  ;  she  saw  Sir  James  Melvill  set  forward 


CH.  VI 


VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS 


259 


upon  his  pious  errand,  and  changed  it,  as  you  know.  Then 
she  resumed  her  judging  and  weighing  of  men. 

Odd !  She  gave  no  thought  to  the  wretched  Italian  , 
her  mind  was  upon  the  quick,  and  not  the  dead.  Ruthven, 
a  black,  dangerous  man  —  scolding-tongued,  impious  in 
mind,  thinking  in  oaths  —yes :  but  a  man !  Archie  Douglas, 
supple  as  a  snake,  Fawdonsyde  and  his  foolish  pistols,  she 
considered  not  at  all ;  but  her  mind  harped  upon  Ruthven 
and  the  King,  who  had  each  laid  rough  hands  upon  her  — 
and  thus,  it  seems,  earned  her  approbation.  Ruthven  had 
taken  her  about  the  middle  and  pushed  her  back,  helpless, 
into  the  other  s  arms  j  and  she  had  felt  those  taut  arms, 
and  not  struggled ;  but  leaned  there,  her  face  in  his  doublet. 
Pardieu ,  each  had  played  the  man  that  night !  And  Ruth¬ 
ven  would  play  it  again,  and  the  King  would  not.  No,  no  ; 
not  he ! 

Ruthven,  by  rights,  should  be  won  over.  Should  she 
try  him  ?  No,  he  would  refuse  her ;  she  was  sure  of  it. 

He  was  as  bluff,  as  flinty-cored  as -  Ranging  here  and 

there,  searching  Scotland  for  his  parallel,  her  heart  jumped 
as  she  found  him.  Bothwell,  Bothwell!  Ha,  if  he  had 
been  there  !  It  all  began  to  re-enact  itself  —  the  scuffling, 
grunting,  squealing  business,  with  Bothwell’s  broad  shoul¬ 
ders  steady  in  the  midst  of  it.  Man  against  man  :  Bothwell 
and  Ruthven  face  to  face,  and  the  daggers  agleam  in  the 
candle-light :  —  hey,  how  she  saw  it  all  doing  !  Ruthven 
would  stoop  and  glide  by  the  wall :  his  bent  knees,  his 
mad,  twitching  brows  !  Bothwell  would  stand  his  ground 
in  mid-floor,  and  his  little  eyes  would  twinkle.  ‘  Play  fairly 
with  the  candle,  my  Lady  Argyll !  ’  and  he  would  laugh  — 
yes,  she  could  hear  his  ‘  Ho,  ho,  ho !  ’  But  she  jumped  up 
as  she  came  to  that,  she  panted  and  felt  her  cheeks  burn. 
She  held  her  fine  throat  with  both  hands  until  she  had 
calmed  herself.  So  doing,  a  thought  struck  her.  She 
rang  her  hand-bell  and  sent  for  Des-Essars  once  more. 

When  he  came  to  her  she  made  a  fuss  over  him,  stroked 
his  hair,  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  said  he  was  her 
young  knight  who  should  ride  out  to  her  rescue.  He  was 
to  take  a  message  from  her  tc  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  —  that 
he  was  on  no  account  to  stir  out  of  town  until  he  heard 


26o 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


from  her  again.  He  should  rather  get  in  touch  with  all  of 
her  friends  and  be  ready  for  instant  affairs.  Des-Essars 
went  eagerly  but  discreetly  to  work.  She  then  had  just 
time  to  leave  a  direction  for  Melvill,  that  he  should  be  first 
with  her  brother  Moray,  when  they  told  her  that  the  King 
was  coming  in. 

‘  Of  course  he  is  coming/  she  said.  4  What  else  can  he 
do?’ 

Her  courage  rose  to  meet  him  more  than  half-way.  If 
Des-Essars  had  been  allowed  to  feel  her  heart  again  he 
would  have  found  it  as  steady  as  a  man’s. 

‘  I  will  see  the  King  in  the  red  closet,’  she  said.  ‘  Seton, 
Fleming,  come  you  with  me.’ 

When  he  was  announced  he  found  her  thus  in  com¬ 
pany,  sitting  at  her  needlework  on  a  low  coffer  by  the 
window. 

The  young  man  had  thickened  rims  to  his  eyes,  but  else 
looked  pinched  and  drawn.  He  kept  a  napkin  in  his  hand, 
with  which  he  was  for  ever  dabbing  his  mouth  :  seeming 
to  search  for  signs  of  blood  upon  it,  he  inspected  it  curiously 
whenever  it  had  touched  him.  As  he  entered  the  Queen 
glanced  up,  bowed  her  head  to  him  and  resumed  her  stitch¬ 
work.  The  two  maids,  after  their  curtseys,  remained 
standing  —  to  his  visible  perturbation.  It  was  plain  that  he 
had  expected  to  find  her  alone ;  also  that  he  had  strung 
himself  up  for  a  momentous  interview  —  and  that  she  had 
not.  He  grew  more  and  more  nervous,  the  napkin  hovered 
incessantly  near  his  mouth ;  half-turning  to  call  his  man 
Standen  into  the  room,  he  thought  better  of  it,  and 
came  on  a  little  way,  saying,  ‘  Madam,  how  does  your 
Majesty  ?  ’ 

She  looked  amused  at  the  question,  as  she  went  on 
sewing. 

‘  As  well,  my  lord,’  she  told  him,  ‘  as  I  can  look  to  be 
these  many  months  more.  But  women  must  learn  such 
lessons,  which  men  have  only  to  teach.’ 

He  knew  that  he  was  outmatched.  ‘  I  am  thankful, 
madam - ’ 

‘  My  lord,  you  have  every  reason.’ 

‘  I  say,  I  am  thankful ;  for  I  had  a  fear - ’ 


ch.  vi  VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS  261 

She  gave  him  a  sharp  look.  ‘Do  you  fear,  my  lord? 
What  have  you  to  fear  ?  Your  friends  are  about  you,  your 
wife  a  prisoner.  What  have  you  to  fear  ?  ’ 

‘  The  tongue,  madam.’ 

She  had  goaded  him  to  this,  and  could  have  had  him 
at  her  mercy  had  she  so  willed  it.  But  she  was  silent, 
husbanding  her  best  weapon  against  good  time. 

He  went  headlong  on.  ‘  I  had  words  for  your  private 
ear.  I  had  hoped  that  by  a  little  intimacy,  such  as  may 
be  looked  for  between -  But  it’s  all  one.’ 

She  affected  not  to  understand,  pored  over  his  fretful 

scraps  with  the  pure  pondering  of  a  child.  ‘But - ! 

Converse,  intimacy  between  us !  Who  is  to  prevent  it  ? 
Ah,  my  poor  maids  afflict  you !  What  may  be  done  before 
matrons  must  be  guarded  from  the  maids.  Indeed,  my 
lord,  and  that  is  my  opinion.  Go,  my  dears.  The  King 
is  about  to  discuss  the  affairs  of  marriage.’ 

They  went  out.  The  King  immediately  came  to  her, 
stooped  and  took  her  hand  up  from  her  lap.  She  kept  the 
other  hidden. 

‘My  Mary,’  he  said  —  ‘My  Mary!  let  all  be  new-born 
between  us.’ 

_  She  heard  the  falter  in  his  voice,  but  considered  rather 
his  fine  white  hand  as  it  held  her  own,  and  judged  it  with 
a  cool  brain.  A  frail  hand  for  a  man !  So  white,  so  thinly 
boned,  the  veins  so  blue !  Could  such  hands  ever  hold  her 
again  ?  And  how  hot  and  dry  !  A  fever  must  be  eating 
him.  Her  own  hands  were  cold.  New-born  love — for  this 
hectic  youth ! 

‘  New-born,  my  lord  ?  ’  she  echoed  him,  sighing.  ‘  Alas, 
that  which  must  be  born  should  be  paid  for  first.  And 
what  the  reckoning  of  that  may  be  now,  you  know  as  well 
as  I.  May  not  one  new  birth  be  as  much  as  I  can  hope  for, 
or  desire  ?  I  do  think  so.’ 

Fully  as  well  as  she  he  knew  the  peril  she  had  been  in, 
she  and  the  load  she  carried.  He  went  down  on  his  knee 
beside  her,  and,  holding  her  one  hand,  sought  after  the 
other,  which  she  hid. 

‘My  dear,’  he  said  earnestly,  ‘oh,  my  dear,  judge  me 
not  hardly.  I  endeavoured  to  shield  you  last  night  —  I  held 


262 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


you  fast  —  they  dared  not  touch  you!  Remember  it,  my 
Mary.  As  for  my  faults,  I  own  them  fairly.  I  was  pro¬ 
voked —  anger  moved  me  —  bitter  anger.  I  am  young.  I 
am  not  even-tempered :  remember  this  and  forgive  me. 
And,  I  pray  you,  give  me  your  hand.  —  No,  the  other,  the 
other!  For  I  need  it,  my  heart — indeed  and  indeed.’ 
That  hand  was  gripped  about  a  cold  thing  in  her  lap, 
under  her  needlework.  He  could  not  have  it  without  that 
which  it  held ;  and  now  she  knew  that  he  should  not.  For 
now  she  scorned  him  —  that  a  man  who  had  laid  his  own 
hands  to  man’s  work  should  now  be  on  his  knees,  pleading 
for  his  wife’s  hands  instead  of  snatching  them  —  why,  she 
herself  was  the  better  man  !  Womanlike,  she  played  with 
what  she  could  have  killed  in  a  flash. 

‘  My  other  hand,  my  lord  ?  Do  you  ask  for  it  ?  You 
had  it  once,  when  you  put  rings  upon  it,  but  let  it  go.  Do 
you  ask  for  it  again  ?  It  can  give  you  no  joy.’ 

‘I  need  it,  I  need  it!  You  should  not  deny  me.’  He 
craved  it  abjectly.  ‘  Oh,  my  soul,  my  soul,  I  kiss  the  one 
—  let  me  kiss  the  other,  lest  it  be  jealous.’ 

Unhappy  conceit !  Her  eyes  paled,  and  you  might  have 
thought  her  tongue  a  snake’s,  darting,  forked,  flickering  out 
and  in  as  she  struck  hard. 

‘Traitor!’  thus  she  stabbed  him  —  ‘Traitor,  son  of  a 
traitor,  take  and  kiss  it  if  you  dare.’  She  laid  above  her 
caught  hand  that  other,  cool  and  firm,  and  opened  it  to 
show  him  the  handle  of  his  own  dagger.  She  took  the 
blade  by  the  point  and  held  the  thing  up,  swinging  before 
his  shocked  eyes.  ‘  Lick  that,  hound  !  ’  she  said  :  ‘  you 
should  know  the  taste  of  it  better  than  I.’ 

He  dropped  her  one  hand,  stared  stupidly  at  the  other : 
but  as  his  gaze  concentrated  upon  the  long  smear  on  the 
blade  you  could  have  seen  the  sweat  rising  on  his  temples. 

She  had  read  him  exquisitely.  After  the  first  brunt  of 
terror,  rage  was  what  he  felt  —  furious  rage  against  the  man 
whom  he  supposed  to  have  betrayed  him.  ‘  Oh,  horrible 
traitor !  ’  he  muttered  by  the  window,  whither  he  had 
betaken  himself  for  refuge, —  ‘Oh,  Archie  Douglas,  if  I 
could  be  even  with  thee  for  this !  Oh,  man,  man,  man, 
what  a  curious,  beastly  villain  !  ’  He  was  much  too  angry 


ch.  vi  VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS  263 

now  to  be  tender  of  his  wife  —  either  of  her  pity  or  revenge ; 
he  turned  upon  her,  threatening  her  from  his  window. 

'You  shall  not  intimidate  me.  I  am  no  baby  in  your 
hands.  This  man  is  a  villain,  I  tell  you,  whom  I  shall  pur¬ 
sue  till  he  is  below  my  heel.  He  has  laid  this,  look  you 
for  a  trap.  This  was  got  by  theft,  and  displayed  by  malice 

—  devilish  craft  of  a  traitor.  And  do  you  suppose  I  shall 
let  it  go  by  ?  You  mistake  me,  by  God,  if  you  do.  Foul 
thief  !  —  black,  foul  theft !  ’ 

She  pointed  to  the  smear  on  the  blade.  ‘  And  this  ?  ’ 
she  asked  him  :  ‘  what  of  this  ?  Was  this  got  by  theft,  my 
lord  ?  Was  this  dry  blood  thieved  from  a  dead  man  ?  Or 
do  I  mistake,  as  you  suppose  ?  Nay,  wretch,  but  you  know 
that  I  do  not.  The  man  was  dead  long  before  you  dared 
touch  him.  Dead  and  in  rags  —  and  then  the  King  drove 
in  his  blade!’  Her  face  —  Hecate  in  the  winter — with¬ 
ered  him  more  than  her  words.  Though  these  contained 
a  dreadful  truth,  the  other  chilled  his  blood.  He  crept 
aimlessly  about  the  room,  feeling  his  heart  fritter  to  water, 
and  all  the  remains  of  his  heat  congested  in  his  head.  He 
tried  to  straighten  his  back,  his  knees :  there  seemed  no 
sap  in  his  bones.  And  she  sat  on,  with  cold  critical  eyes, 
and  her  lips  hard  together. 

‘My  Mary,’  he  began  to  stammer,  ‘this  is  all  a  plot 
against  my  life  —  surely,  surely  you  see  it.  I  have  enemies, 
the  worse  in  that  they  are  concealed  —  I  see  now  that  all 
the  past  has  been  but  a  plot — why,  yes,  it  is  plain  as  the 
daylight !  I  entreat  you  to  hear  me  :  this  is  most  dangerous 
villainy —  I  can  prove  it.  They  swore  to  stand  my  friends 

—  fast,  fast  they  swore  it.  And  here  —  to  your  hand  —  is 
proof  positive.  Surely,  surely,  you  see  how  I  am  trapped 
by  these  shameful  traffickers  !  ’ 

Her  eyes  never  left  his  face,  but  followed  him  about  the 
room  on  his  aimless  tour;  and  whether  he  turned  from  the 
window  or  the  wall,  so  sure  as  he  looked  up  he  saw  them 
on  him.  They  drove  him  into  speech.  ‘I  meant  honestly,' 
he  began  again,  shifting  away  from  those  watchful  lights  ; 
‘I  meant  honestly  indeed.  I  have  lived  amiss  —  oh,  I 
know  it  well !  A  man  is  led  into  sin,  and  one  sin  leads  to 
another.  But  I  am  punished,  threatened,  in  peril.  Let 


264 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


me  escape  these  nets  and  snares,  I  may  do  well  yet.  My 
Mary,  all  may  be  well !  Let  us  stand  together  —  you  and 
I  ’  —  he  came  towards  her  with  his  hands  out,  stopped, 
started  back.  ‘  Look  away  —  look  away ;  take  your  eyes 
from  off  me  —  they  burn  !  ’  He  covered  his  own.  ‘  O  God, 
my  God,  how  miserable  I  am  !  ’ 

‘You  are  a  prisoner  as  I  am,’  said  the  Queen.  ‘We 
stand  together  because  we  are  tied  together.  And  as  for 
my  eyes,  what  you  abhor  in  them  is  what  you  have  put 

there.  But  since  we  are  fellow-prisoners,  methinks - ’ 

He  looked  wildly.  ‘Who  says  I  am  prisoner?  If  I 
am — if  I  am  —  why,  I  am  betrayed  on  all  hands.  My 
kinsmen  —  my  father  —  no,  no,  no  !  That  is  foolishness. 
Madam,’  he  asked  her,  being  desperate,  ‘  who  told  you  that 
I  was  a  prisoner  ?  ’ 

She  glanced  at  the  dagger.  ‘  This  tells  me.  Why,  think 
you,  should  Archie  Douglas  have  laid  that  in  the  grave, 
except  for  me  to  find  it  there  ?  ’ 

It  was,  or  it  might  have  been,  ludicrous  to  see  his 
dismay.  He  stared,  with  dots  where  his  eyes  should  have 
been  ;  he  puffed  his  cheeks  and  blew  them  empty ;  in  his 
words  he  lost  all  sense  of  proportion. 

‘  Beastly  villain  !  Why,  it  is  a  plot  against  me  !  Why, 
they  may  murder  me!  Why,  this  may  have  been  their 
whole  intent !  Lord  God,  a  plot !  ’ 

He  pondered  this  dreadfully,  seeing  no  way  of  escape, 
struggling  with  the  injury  of  it  and  the  pity  of  it.  Con¬ 
sideration  that  she  was  in  the  same  plight,  that  he  had 
plotted  against  her,  and  now  himself  was  plotted  against : 
there  was  food  for  humour  in  such  a  thought,  but  no  food 
for  him.  Of  the  two  feelings  he  had,  resentment  prevailed, 
and  brought  his  cunning  into  play.  ‘  By  heaven  and  hell,’ 
he  said,  ‘  but  I  can  counter  shrewdly  on  these  knaves.  Just 
wait  a  little.’  He  cheered  as  he  fumbled  in  his  bosom. 
‘You  shall  see,  you  shall  see  —  now  you  shall  see  whether 
or  no  I  can  foin  and  parry  with  these  night-stabbers.  Oh, 
the  treachery,  the  treachery  !  But  wait  a  little  —  now,  now, 
now  !  ’ 

He  produced  papers  in  a  gush  —  bonds,  schedules,  sig¬ 
natures,  seals  —  all  tumbled  pell-mell  into  her  lap.  She 


CH.  VI 


VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS 


265 


read  there  what  she  had  guessed  beforehand:  Morton, 
Ruthven,  Lindsay,  Douglas,  Lethington  —  ah,  she  had  for¬ 
gotten  this  lover  of  Mary  Fleming’s!  —  Boyd  —  yes,  yes,  and 
the  stout  Kirkcaldy  of  Grange.  Not  her  brothers?  No: 
but  she  suspected  that  Lethington’s  name  implied  Moray’s. 
Well,  Sir  James  would  win  her  back  Moray,  she  hoped. 
She  did  not  trouble  with  any  more.  ‘  Yes,  yes,  your  friends, 
my  lord.  Your  friends,’  she  repeated,  lingering  on  the 
pleasant  word,  ‘who  have  made  use  of  you  to  injure  me, 
and  now  have  dropped  you  out  of  window.  Well !  And 
now  what  will  you  do,  fellow-prisoner  ?  ’ 

At  her  knees  now,  his  wretched  head  in  her  lap,  his 
wretched  tears  staining  her,  he  confessed  the  whole  business, 
sparing  nobody,  not  even  himself ;  and  as  his  miserable 
manhood  lay  spilling  there  it  staled — like  sour  milk  in 
sweet  —  any  remnants  of  attraction  his  tall  person  may 
have  had  for  her.  She  could  calculate  as  she  listened  — 
and  so  she  did  —  to  what  extent  she  might  serve  herself  yet 
of  this  watery  fool.  But  she  could  not  for  the  life  of  her 
have  expressed  her  contempt  for  him.  The  thing  had 
come  to  pass  too  exactly  after  her  calculation.  If  he  had 
been  a  boy  she  might  have  pitied  him,  or  if,  on  entering 
her  presence,  he  had  laid  sudden  hands  upon  her,  exulting 
in  his  force  and  using  it  mannishly ;  had  he  been  greedy, 
overbearing,  insolent,  snatching  —  and  a  man  !  —  she  might, 
once  more  and  for  ever,  have  given  him  all  her  heart.  But 
a  blubbering,  truth-telling  oaf  —  heaven  and  earth !  could 
she  have  wedded  this  ?  Well,  he  would  serve  to  get  her 
out  of  Holyrood ;  and  meantime  she  was  tired  and  must 
forgive,  to  get  rid  of  him. 

This  was  not  so  easy  as  it  sounds,  because  at  the  first 
word  of  human  toleration  she  uttered  he  pricked  up  his 
pampered  ears.  As  she  went  on  to  speak  of  the  lesson  he 
had  learned,  of  the  wisdom  of  trusting  her  for  the  future 
and  of  being  ruled  by  her  experience  and  judgment,  he 
brushed  his  eyes  and  began  to  encroach.  His  tears  had 
done  him  good,  and  her  recollected  air  gave  him  courage  ; 
he  felt  shriven,  more  at  ease.  So  he  enriched  himself  of 
her  hand  again,  he  edged  up  to  share  her  seat ;  very 
soon  she  felt  his  arm  stealing  about  her  waist.  She 


BK.  II 


2 66  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

allowed  these  things  because  she  had  decided  that  she 
must. 

He  now  became  very  confidential,  owning  freely  to  his 
jealousy  of  the  Italian  —  surely  pardonable  in  a  lover  !  — • 
talking  somewhat  of  his  abilities  with  women,  his  high¬ 
handed  ways  (which  he  admitted  that  he  had  in  excess : 
‘a  fault,  that!  ’),  his  ambitions  towards  kingship,  crowns- 
matrimonial,  and  the  like  trappings  of  manhood.  She 
listened  patiently,  saying  little,  judging  and  planning 
incessantly.  This  he  took  for  favour,  advanced  from 
stronghold  to  stronghold,  growing  as  he  climbed.  The 
unborn  child  —  pledge  of  their  love :  he  spoke  of  that.  He 
was  sly,  used  double  meanings ;  he  took  her  presently  by 
the  chin  and  kissed  her  cheek.  Unresisted,  he  kissed  her 
again  and  again.  ‘  Re dintegratio  amoris  !  ’  he  cried,  really 
believing  it  at  the  moment.  This  very  night  he  would 
prove  to  her  his  amendment.  Journeys  end  in  lovers’ 
meeting  !  If  she  would  have  patience  she  should  be  a 
happy  wife  yet.  Would  she  —  might  he  hope?  Should 
this  day  be  a  second  wedding  day  ?  Her  heart  was  as  still 
as  freezing  water,  but  her  head  prompted  her  to  sigh  and 
half  smile. 

‘You  consent!  You  consent!  Oh,  happy  fortune!’ 
he  cried,  and  kissed  her  mouth  and  eyes,  and  possessed  as 
much  as  he  could. 

‘Enough,  my  lord,  enough!’  said  she.  ‘You  forget,  I 
think,  that  I  am  a  wife.’ 

He  cursed  himself  for  having  for  one  moment  forgotten 
it,  threw  himself  at  her  knees  and  kissed  her  held  hands 
over  and  over,  then  jumped  to  his  feet,  all  his  courage 
restored.  ‘  Farewell,  lady  !  Farewell,  sweet  Queen  !  I  go 
to  count  the  hours.’  He  went  out  humming  a  tavern  catch 
about  Moll  and  Peg.  She  called  her  women  in,  to  wash 
her  face  and  hands. 

By  riding  long  and  changing  often  Sir  James  Melvill 
had  been  able  to  salute  the  Earl  of  Moray  on  the  home 
side  of  Dunbar.  The  great  man  travelled,  primus  inter 
pares ,  a  little  apart  from  his  companions  in  exile  —  and 
without  Mr.  Secretary  Lethington.  The  fact  is  that  Mr. 


CH.  VI 


VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS 


267 


Secretary  was  as  much  distrusted  by  his  friends  as  by  Lord 
Moray  himself,  and  had  been  required  at  the  last  moment 
to  stay  in  town.  Sir  James,  thanks  to  that,  was  not  long 
in  coming  to  close  quarters  with  the  Earl,  and  frankly  told 
him  that  he  had  been  sent  by  the  Queen’s  Majesty  to 
welcome  him  home.  Lord  Moray  was  bound  to  confess 
to  himself  that,  certainly,  he  had  not  looked  for  that.  He 
had  expected  to  come  back  a  personage  to  be  feared,  but 
not  one  to  be  desired.  The  notion  was  not  displeasing  — 
for  if  you  are  desired  it  may  very  well  be  because  you  are 
feared.  So  all  the  advantage  at  starting  lay  with  Sir  James. 

He  went  on  to  say  how  much  need  her  Majesty  felt  in 
her  heart  to  stand  well  with  her  blood  relations.  As  for 
old  differences  —  ah,  well,  well,  they  were  happily  over  and 
done  with.  My  lord  would  not  look  for  the  Queen  to 
confess  to  an  error  in  judgment,  nor  would  she,  certainly, 
ever  reproach  him  with  the  past.  There  was  no  question 
of  a  treaty  of  forgiveness  between  a  sister  and  her  brother. 
Urgency  of  the  heart,  mutual  needs,  were  all !  And  her 
needs  were  grievous,  no  question.  Why,  the  very  desire 
she  had  for  his  help  was  proof  that  the  past  was  past.  Did 
not  his  lordship  think  so  ? 

His  lordship  listened  to  this  tolerant  chatter  as  became 
a  grave  statesman.  Without  a  sign  to  betray  his  face  he 
requested  his  civil  friend  —  ‘worthy  Sir  James  Melvill’  — 
to  rehearse  the  late  occurrences —  ‘  Of  the  which,’  he  said, 

‘  hearing  somewhat  at  Berwick,  I  had  a  heavy  heart,  mis¬ 
doubting  what  part  I  might  be  called  upon  to  play  in 
the  same.’ 

Whereupon  Sir  James,  with  the  like  gravity,  related  to 
his  noble  friend  all  the  details  of  a  plot  which  nobody  knew 
more  exactly  than  the  man  who  heard  him.  It  added  zest 
to  the  comic  interlude  that  Sir  James  also  knew  quite  well 
that  my  lord  had  been  one  of  the  conspirators. 

At  the  end  his  lordship  said  :  ‘  I  thank  you,  Sir  James 
Melvill,  for  your  tender  recital  of  matters  which  may  well 
cause  heart-searching  in  us  all.  Happy  is  that  queen,  I 
consider,  who  has  such  a  diligent  servant !  And  happy 
also  am  I,  who  can  be  sure  of  one  such  colleague  as 
yourself !  ’ 


268  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  ii 

‘  All  goes  well,’  thinks  Melvill.  ‘  I  have  my  old  sow  by 
the  lug.’ 

If  he  had  one  lug,  the  Queen  got  the  other.  For  when 
my  Lord  of  Moray  reached  Edinburgh  that  night,  he  was 
told  that  her  Majesty  awaited  him  at  Holyroodhouse. 
Prisoner  or  not,  she  received  him  there,  smiling  and  eager 
to  see  him  —  and  her  gaolers  standing  by  !  And  whenas 
he  hesitated,  darkly  bowing  before  her,  she  came  forward 
in  a  pretty,  shy  way ;  and,  ‘  Oh,  brother,  brother,  I  am  glad 
you  have  come  to  me,’  she  said,  and  gave  him  her  hands, 
and  let  him  kiss  her  cheek. 

He  murmured  something  proper,  —  his  duty  always  re¬ 
membered,  and  the  rest  of  the  phrases,  —  but  she,  as  if 
clinging  to  him,  ran  on  in  a  homelier  speech.  ‘  Indeed, 
there  was  need  of  you,  brother  James!’  she  assured  him, 
and  went  on  to  tell  him  that  which  moved  the  stony  man 
to  tears.  At  least,  it  is  so  reported,  and  I  am  glad  to 
believe  it. 

She  walked  with  him  afterwards  in  full  hall,  talking  low 
and  quickly  —  candour  itself.  Her  tones  had  a  throbbing 
note,  and  a  note  of  confidence,  which  changed  the  whole 
scene  as  she  recited  it.  I  repeat,  the  hall  was  full  while 
she  walked  with  him  there,  up  and  down  in  the  flickering 
firelight  —  full  of  the  men  whose  plots  he  had  shared,  and 
hoped  to  profit  by.  Fine  spectacle  for  my  lords  of  the 
Privy  Council,  for  Mr.  Archie  Douglas  and  his  cousin 
Morton,  fine  for  Mr.  Secretary  Lethington !  Before  she 
kissed  her  brother  good-night,  before  she  went  to  bed,  she 
felt  that  she  had  done  a  good  day’s  work.  And  now,  with 
her  triumph  as  good  as  won,  she  was  ready  for  the  crown¬ 
ing  of  it. 

There  she  was  out-generalled :  there  she  was  beaten. 
Match  for  all  these  men’s  wit,  she  was  outwitted  by  one 
man’s  sodden  flesh.  They  undressed  her,  prepared  her  for 
bed.  She  lay  there  in  her  pale,  fragrant  beauty,  solace  for 
any  lord’s  desire,  and  conscious  of  it,  and  more  fine  for  the 
knowledge.  She  took  deep  breaths  and  draughts  of  ease ; 
she  assured  herself  that  she  was  very  fair ;  she  watched  the 
glimmering  taper  and  read  the  shadows  on  the  pictured 


CH.  VI 


VENUS  IN  THE  TOILS 


269 


wall  as  she  waited  for  the  crowning  of  her  toil.  The  day 
had  been  hers  against  all  odds ;  the  day  is  not  always  to 
Venus,  but  the  night  is  her  demesne.  So  she  waited  and 
drowsed,  smiling  her  wise  smile,  secure,  superb,  and  at  ease. 
But  King  Harry  Darnley,  very  drunk,  lay  stertorous  in  his 
own  bed;  nor  dared  Forrest,  nor  Standen,  nor  any  man  of 
his  household,  stir  him  out  of  that.  The  Queen  of  Wine 
and  Honey  had  digged  a  pit  of  sweetness  and  hidden  a 
fine  web  all  about  it,  and  was  fallen  into  the  midst  of  it 
herself. 

And  so,  it  is  like  enough,  if  the  boar  had  not  timely  rent 
the  thigh  of  Adonis,  Dame  Venus  herself  might  have 
writhed,  helpless  in  just  such  toils. 


CHAPTER  VII 


AFTERTASTE 

The  Queen  woke  at  eight  o’clock  in  the  morning  and 
called  for  a  cup  of  cold  water.  She  sat  up  to  drink,  and 
was  told  that  Antony  Standen  had  been  at  the  door  at 
half-past  six,  the  King  himself  at  seven.  Listening  to  this 
news  with  her  lips  in  the  water,  her  eyes  grew  bitter-bright. 
‘  He  shall  have  old  waiting  at  my  chamber  door,’  she  said, 
‘before  he  wins  it.’  Then  she  began  to  weep  and  fling 
herself  about,  to  bite  the  coverlet  and  to  gloom  among  the 
pillows.  ‘  If  I  forget  this  past  night  may  my  God  forget 
me.’  O  daughter  of  Babylon,  wasted  with  misery  !  She 
lay  down  again  and  shut  her  eyes,  but  fretted  all  the  time, 
twitching  her  arms  and  legs,  making  little  angry  noises, 
shifting  from  side  to  side.  Mary  Seton  sat  by  the  bed, 
cool  and  discreet. 

The  minutes  passed,  she  enduring,  until  at  last,  unable 
to  bear  the  tripping  of  them,  she  started  up  so  violently 
that  a  great  pillow  rolled  on  to  the  floor.  ‘  I  could  kill 
myself,  Seton,’  she  said,  grinding  her  little  teeth  together, 
‘I  could  kill  myself  for  this  late  piece  of  work.  Verjuice 
in  me  !  —  I  should  die  to  drink  my  own  milk.  And  all  of 
you  there,  whispering  by  the  door,  wagering,  nudging  one 
another — “  He’ll  never  come — never.  Not  he!”  Oh,  Jesu- 
Christ !  ’  she  cried,  straining  up  her  bare  arms,  ‘  let  this 
wound  of  mine  keep  green  until  the  time !  ’ 

‘  Hush,  dear  madam,  oh,  hush !  ’  says  Seton,  flushing  to 
hear  her ;  but  the  Queen  turned  her  a  white,  hardy  face. 

‘  Why  should  I  be  hushed  ?  Let  me  cry  out  my  shame 

270 


CH.  VII 


AFTERTASTE 


271 


to  all  the  world,  that  am  the  scorn  of  men  and  wedded 
women.  Who  heeds  ?  What  matter  what  I  say  ?  Leave 
me  alone  —  I’ll  not  be  hushed  down.’ 

Seton  was  undismayed.  ‘No  wedded  woman  am  I.  I 
love  you,  madam,  and  therefore  I  shall  speak  with  you.  I 
say  that,  as  he  has  proved  his  unworthiness,  so  you  must 
prove  your  pride.  I  say - ’ 

There  was  hasty  knocking  at  the  door ;  the  maid  ran  : 
‘  Who  is  it  knocks  ?  ’ 

‘The  King’s  valet  is  without.  The  King  asks  if  her 
Majesty  is  awake.’ 

‘  Let  him  ask,’  said  the  Queen  :  ‘  I  will  never  see  him 
again.  Say  that  I  am  at  prayers.’ 

Seton  called,  ‘  Reply  that  Her  Majesty  is  unable  to  see 
the  King  at  this  time.  Her  Majesty  awoke  early,  and  is 
now  at  prayers.’  She  returned  to  the  bed,  where  the 
Queen  lay  on  her  elbow,  picking  her  handkerchief  to 
pieces  with  her  teeth. 

‘Sweet  madam,’  she  said,  ‘bethink  you  now  of  what 
must  be  done  this  day.  You  wish  to  be  avenged  of  your 
enemies  .  .  .’ 

The  Queen  looked  keenly  up. 

‘  Well,  well,  of  all  your  enemies.  But  for  this  you  must 
first  be  free.  And  it  grows  late.’ 

The  Queen  put  her  hair  from  her  face  and  looked  at  the 
light  coming  in.  She  sat  up  briskly.  ‘You  are  right,  ma 
mie.  Come  and  kiss  me.  I  have  been  playing  baby  until 
my  head  aches.’ 

‘You  will  play  differently  now,  I  see,’  said  Seton,  ‘and 
other  heads  may  wish  they  had  a  chance  to  ache.’ 

The  Queen  took  her  maid’s  face  in  her  dry  hands.  ‘  Oh, 
Seton,’  she  said,  ‘  you  are  a  cordial  to  me.  They  have 
taken  my  poor  David,  but  have  left  me  you.’ 

‘Nay,  madam,’  says  Seton,  ‘they  might  take  me  too, 
and  you  need  none  of  my  strong  waters.  There  is  wine 
enough  in  your  honey  for  all  your  occasions.’ 

A  shadow  of  her  late  gloom  crossed  over  her.  ‘  My 
honey  has  been  racked  with  galls.  ’Tis  you  that  have 
cleared  it.  Give  me  my  nightgown,  and  send  for  Father 
Roche.  I  will  say  my  prayers.’ 


272 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


With  a  spirit  so  responsive  as  hers,  the  will  to  move  was 
a  signal  for  scheming  to  begin.  Up  and  down  her  mind 
went  the  bobbing  looms,  across  and  across  the  humming 
shuttles,  spinning  the  fine  threads  together  into  a  fabric 
whose  warp  was  vengeance  and  the  woof  escape  from  self¬ 
scorn.  She  must  be  free  from  prison  this  coming  night ; 
but  that  was  not  the  half  :  she  intended  to  leave  her  captors 
in  the  bonds  she  quitted.  So  high-mettled  was  she  that  I 
doubt  whether  she  would  have  accepted  the  first  at  the 
price  of  giving  up  the  second.  Those  being  the  ends  of 
her  purpose,  all  her  planning  was  to  adjust  the  means;  and 
the  first  thing  that  she  saw  (and,  with  great  courage,  faced) 
was  that  the  King — this  mutilated  god,  this  botch,  this 
travesty  of  lover  and  lord  —  must  come  out  with  her.  Long 
before  demure  Father  Roche  could  answer  his  summons 
she  had  admitted  that,  and  strung  herself  to  accept  it. 
She  must  drag  him  after  her  —  a  hobble  on  a  donkey’s  leg 
—  because  she  dared  not  leave  him  behind.  He  had 
betrayed  his  friends  to  her  —  true  ;  but  if  she  forsook  him 
he  would  run  to  them  again  and  twice  betray  her.  She 
shrugged  him  out  of  mind.  Bah !  if  she  must  take  him 
she  would  take  him.  ’Twas  to  be  hoped  he  would  get 
pleasure  of  it  —  and  so  much  for  that.  But  whom  dared 
she  leave  ?  She  could  think  of  no  one  as  yet  but  her 
brother  Moray.  Overnight  she  had  separated  him  from 
the  others,  and  she  judged  that  he  would  remain  separate. 
Her  thought  was  this  : — ‘  He  is  a  rogue  among  rogues,  I 
grant.  But  if  you  trust  one  rogue  in  a  pack,  all  the  others 
will  distrust  him.  Therefore  he,  being  shunned  by  them, 
will  cleave  to  me ;  and  they,  not  knowing  how  far  I  trust 
him,  will  falter  and  look  doubtfully  at  one  another ;  and 
some  of  them  will  come  over  to  him,  and  then  the  others 
will  be  stranded.’  Superficial  reasoning,  rough-and-ready 
inference,  all  this.  She  knew  it  quite  well,  but  judged  that 
it  would  meet  the  case  of  Scotland.  It  was  only,  as  it 
were,  the  scum  of  the  vats  she  had  seen  brewing  in  France. 
.  .  .  But  I  keep  Father  Roche  from  his  prayers. 

Affairs  in  the  palace  and  precincts  kept  their  outward 
calm  in  the  face  of  the  buzzing  town.  Train-bands 


CH.  VII 


AFTERTASTE 


273 


paraded  the  street,  the  Castle  was  for  her  Majesty,  the 
gates  were  faithful.  In  the  presence  of  such  monitors  as 
these  the  burgesses  and  their  wives  kept  their  mouths  shut 
as  they  stood  at  shop-doors,  and  when  they  greeted  at  the 
close-ends  they  looked,  but  did  not  ask,  for  news.  But  the 
Earl  of  Morton’s  men  still  held  the  palace,  and  he  himself 
inspected  the  guard.  There  were  no  attempts  to  dispute 
his  hold,  so  far  as  he  could  learn,  no  blood-sheddings  above 
the  ordinary,  no  libels  on  the  Cross,  no  voices  lifted  against 
him  in  the  night.  He  held  a  morning  audience  in  the 
Little  Throne-room,  with  his  cousin  Douglas  for  Chief 
Secretary ;  and  to  his  suitors,  speaking  him  fair,  gave  fair 
replies.  But  it  may  be  admitted  he  was  very  uneasy. 

That  had  not  been  a  pleasant  view  for  him  overnight, 
when  the  great  Earl  of  Moray,  newly  returned,  walked  the 
hall  with  the  Queen  upon  his  arm.  His  jaw  had  dropped 
to  see  it.  Here  was  a  turn  given  to  our  affairs !  Dreams 
troubled  him,  wakefulness,  and  flying  fancies,  which  to 
pursue  was  torment  and  not  to  pursue  certain  ruin.  He 
slept  late  and  rose  late.  At  a  sort  of  levee,  which  he  held 
as  he  dressed,  he  was  peevish,  snapped  at  the  faithful 
Archie,  and  almost  quarrelled  with  Ruthven. 

‘  Do  you  bite,  my  lord  ?  ’  had  said  that  savage.  *  If  I 
am  to  lose  my  head  it  shall  be  in  kinder  company.  I 
salute  your  lordship.’  And  so  he  slammed  out. 

Morton  knew  that  he  must  smooth  him  down  before 
the  day  was  over,  but  just  now  there  were  more  pressing 
needs.  He  told  his  cousin  that  he  must  see  the  King  at 
the  earliest. 

Archie  wagged  his  silvery  head,  looking  as  wise  as  an 
old  stork.  ‘Why,  that  is  very  well,’  says  he;  ‘but  how  if 
he  will  not  see  you  ?  ’ 

‘  What  do  you  mean,  man  ?  ’  cried  the  Earl  upon  him. 

‘Why,  this,  cousin,’  said  Archie:  ‘that  the  King  is  out 
of  all  hand  the  morn.  I  went  to  his  door  betimes  and 
listened  for  him,  but  could  hear  nothing  forby  the  snivelling 
of  his  boy,  therefore  made  so  bold  as  to  open.  There  I 
found  the  minion  Forrest  crying  his  heart  out  over  the  bed, 
and  could  hear  our  kinsman  within  howling  blasphemy  in 
English.’ 


274 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


*  Pooh,  man,  ’tis  his  way  of  a  morning,’  said  Morton, 
heartening  himself.  ‘  What  did  you  then  ?  ’ 

Archie  screwed  his  lips  to  the  whistle,  and  cocked  one 
eyebrow  at  the  expense  of  the  other. 

‘  What  did  I  ?  I  did  the  foolishest  thing  of  all  my  days, 
when  I  sent  in  my  name  by  the  boy.  Strutting  moorcock, 
call  me,  that  hadna  seen  him  all  the  day  before !  Oh, 
cousin  Morton,  out  comes  our  King  like  a  blustering  gale 
o’  March,  and  takes  me  by  the  twa  lugs,  and  wrenches  at 
me  thereby,  and  shakes  me  to  and  fro  as  if  I  were  a  sieve 
for  seeds.  “Ye  black-hearted,  poisonous  beast !  ’’  he  roars  ; 
“  ye  damned,  nest-fouling  chick  of  a  drab  and  a  preacher  !  ” 
says  he  —  ah,  and  worse  nor  that,  cousin,  if  I  could  lay  my 
tongue  to  sic  filthy  conversation.  “  I’ll  teach  ye,”  says  he 
thunderous,  “  I’ll  teach  ye  to  play  your  games  with  your 
King !  ”  He  was  fumbling  for  his  dagger  the  while,  and 
would  have  stabbed  me  through  and  through  but  for  them 
that  stood  by  and  got  him  off  me.  Cousin,  I  fairly  ran.’ 

The  Earl  looked  sternly  at  him.  ‘Tell  me  the  truth, 
you  Archie.  What  devil’s  trick  had  you  played  upon 
him  ?  ’ 

He  looked  so  blankly,  swore  so  earnestly,  Nothing, 
upon  his  honour,  that  he  had  to  be  believed. 

‘  Well  then,’  said  Morton,  ‘  what  may  this  betide  ?  ’ 

‘  Woe  can  tell  your  lordship !  Little  good  to  you  and 
me  belike.’ 

Lord  Morton  said,  ‘  I  doubt  he’ll  play  us  false.  I  doubt 
the  knave  was  working  the  courage  into  him.’ 

And  there  you  see  why  he  was  uneasy  in  his  ruling  of 
the  palace.  Heavy,  ox-like,  slow-footed  man,  thick- 
blooded,  fond  of  thick  pleasures,  slow  to  see,  slow  to 
follow,  slow  to  give  up  —  he  felt  now,  without  more  rhyme 
or  reason  to  support  him,  that  his  peril  was  great.  The 
King  was  about  to  betray  him.  A  hot  mist  of  rage 
flooded  his  eyes  at  the  thought ;  and  then  his  heart  gave  a 
surge  upwards  and  he  felt  the  thick  water  on  his  tongue. 
‘  If  he  betray  me,  may  God  help  him  if  He  cares !  ’ 

After  his  duties  in  the  Little  Throne-room,  in  this  grave 
conjuncture,  it  seemed  good  to  him  to  get  speech  with  Mr. 
Secretary,  who  had  been  let  out  of  the  house,  but  had  let 


CH.  VII 


AFTERTASTE 


275 


himself  in  again  when  his  master,  my  lord  of  Moray,  came 
home. 

‘  Pray,  Mr.  Secretar,’  says  he,  ‘have  you  any  tidings  of 
my  lord  of  Moray  ?  ’ 

Lethington  became  dry.  ‘  I  had  proposed  to  meet  my 
lord,  as  your  lordship  may  recollect.  It  seemed  good  to 
your  lordship  that  I  should  not  go,  but  that  Sir  James 
Melvill  should  —  with  results  which  I  need  not  particularise. 
I  have  not  been  sent  for  by  my  lord  of  Moray  since  his 
home-coming,  therefore  I  know  no  more  of  his  lordship 
than  your  lordship’s  self  knows.’ 

The  Earl  of  Morton  rumbled  his  lips.  ‘  Prutt !  Prutt ! 
I  wonder  now  .  .  .’  He  began  to  feel  sick  of  his  authority. 

‘  The  King,  Mr.  Secretar,’  he  began  again,  ‘  is  in  some 
distemperature  at  this  present.  I  am  in  doubt  —  it  is  not 
yet  plain  to  me  —  I  regret  the  fact,  I  say.’ 

‘One  should  see  his  Majesty,’  says  Lethington.  ‘No 
doubt  but  Mr.  Archibald  here - ’ 

‘  By  my  soul,  man,’  said  Mr.  Archibald  with  fervour,  ‘  I 
don’t  go  near  him  again  for  a  thousand  pound  —  English.’ 

‘  No,  no,  Mr.  Secretar,’  says  my  lord ;  ‘  but  consider 
whether  yourself  should  not  adventure  my  lord  of  Morav.’ 

‘  My  lord - ’ 

Morton  lifted  his  hand.  ‘Man,’  he  said,  ‘you  must  do 
it.  I  tell  you,  the  sooner  the  better.’  The  hand  fell 
upon  the  table  with  a  thud.  Lethington  started,  then  left 
the  room  without  a  word. 

Very  little  was  said  between  the  two  gentlemen  at  this 
moment  in  charge  of  Holyrood  until  the  Secretary’s  return. 
The  Master  of  Lindsay  intruded  upon  them  to  report  that 
the  Earl  of  Lennox  had  left  the  palace,  had  left  Edinburgh, 
and  had  ridden  hard  to  the  west.  Lord  Morton  nodded  to 
signify  that  his  ears  could  do  their  duty. 

‘  Like  son,  like  father,’  said  Archie  when  the  Master 
had  gone. 

Soon  afterwards  Lethington  knocked  at  the  door, 
entered,  advanced  to  the  table,  and  stood  there,  looking 
at  the  ink-horn,  which  he  moved  gently  about. 

‘Well,  sir!  We  are  here  to  listen,’  cried  Morton,  in 
a  fever. 


276 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


Lethington  was  slow  to  answer  even  then. 

‘  I  have  been  admitted  to  my  lord  of  Moray,  — so  much 
there  is  to  say.  He  had  his  reader  with  him,  but  came 
out  to  me.  When  I  began  to  speak  he  regretted  at  once 
that  he  could  not  hear  me  at  any  length.  He  showed  me 
his  table  encumbered  with  business,  and  declined  at  the 
present  to  add  any  more  to  the  litter.  I  urged  your 
lordship’s  desire  to  have  speech  with  him  as  soon  as  might 
be ;  he  replied  that  his  own  desire  was  always,  in  all 
things,  to  serve  your  lordship.  I  said,  “  Serve  his  lordship 
then  in  this”:  upon  the  which  he  owned  that  he  failed  of 
strength.  “  I  have  a  traveller’s  ache  in  my  bones,”  saith 
he.  “  Let  my  Lord  Morton  have  patience.”  9 

He  stopped  there. 

Lord  Morton  took  a  turn  about  the  room.  ‘No  more 
than  that  said  he,  Lethington?  No  more  than  that?’ 

‘  His  lordship  said  no  more,  my  lord.  And  therefore, 
seeing  that  he  plainly  wished  it,  I  took  my  leave.’ 

The  Earl  looked  at  Archie  Douglas :  some  secret 
intelligence  passed  between  them  in  which  the  Secretary 
had  no  share. 

‘  I  am  going  to  speak  with  my  lord  of  Ruthven  in  his 
chamber,’  then  said  he.  ‘And,  cousin,  do  you  come  also.’ 

The  guard  presented  arms  to  the  great  man  as  he  went 
down  the  hall,  and  a  few  underlings  —  women  of  the  house, 
grooms  of  the  closet  and  coffer  —  ran  after  him  with 
petitions  ;  but  he  waved  away  all  and  sundry.  They  fell 
back,  herded  into  groups  and  whispered  together.  The 
Secretary  came  out  alone  and  paced  the  hall  deep  in 
thought.  One  or  two  eyed  him  anxiously.  How  did  he 
stand  now  ?  It  was  a  parlous  time  for  Scotland  when 
nobody  knew  to  whom  to  cringe  for  a  favour. 

Then — two  hours  after  dinner  —  word  was  brought  down 
into  the  hall  that  the  Queen  would  receive  the  Earl  of 
Morton  and  certain  other  named  persons  in  the  Throne- 
room.  Great  debate  over  this.  Lord  Ruthven  was  for 
declining  to  go.  ‘  We  are  masters  here.  ’Tis  for  us  to 
receive.’ 

But  Lord  Lindsay  shook  his  ragged  head.  ‘No,  no, 


CH.  VII 


AFTERTASTE 


277 


Ruthven,’  he  says,  ‘take  counsel,  my  fine  man.  It  is  ill 
to  go,  but  worse  to  stay  away.’ 

‘  How’s  that,  then  ?  ’  cries  Ruthven,  white  and  fierce. 

‘Why,  thus,’  the  elder  replied.  ‘If  you  go,  you  show 
that  you  are  master.  If  you  go  not,  you  betray  that  you 
doubt  it.’ 

‘  I  see  it  precisely  contrary,’  says  Ruthven. 

‘  Then,’  he  was  told,  ‘  you  have  a  short  vision.  It  is  the 
strong  man  can  afford  to  unbar  the  door.’ 

The  Earl  of  Morton  was  clearly  for  going.  ‘I  take  it, 
my  lord  of  Moray  is  behind  this  message.  Let  us  see 
what  he  will  do.  He  is  bound  to  us  as  fast  as  man  can  be.’ 

They  sent  up  Lethington,  who  came  back  with  the 
answer  that  my  lord  of  Moray  had  been  summoned  in 
like  wise,  and  would  not  fail  of  attendance  upon  her 
Majesty.  This  settled  the  masters  of  Holyrood.  ‘  Where 
he  goes  there  must  we  needs  be  also.’ 

Archie  Douglas  and  Lethington  had  not  been  required 
by  the  Queen;  but  when  Archie  was  for  rubbing  his  hands 
over  that,  the  other  advised  him  to  take  his  time. 

‘You  are  not  the  less  surely  hanged  because  they  let 
you  see  you  are  not  worth  hanging,’  said  the  Secretary. 
Archie  damned  him  for  a  black  Genevan. 

At  the  time  set  the  Earls  of  Morton,  Argyll,  and  Glen- 
cairn,  the  Lords  Ruthven,  Rothes,  and  Lindsay,  and  some 
few  more,  went  upstairs  with  what  state  they  could  muster. 

They  found  the  Queen  on  the  throne,  pale,  stiff  in  the 
set  of  her  head,  but  perfectly  self-possessed.  Three  of  her 
maids  and  Lady  Argyll  were  behind  the  throne.  Upon 
her  right  hand  stood  the  King  in  a  long  ermine  cloak, 
upon  her  left  the  Earl  of  Moray  in  black  velvet.  Lord 
John  Stuart  and  a  sprinkling  of  young  men  held  the  inner 
door,  and  a  secretary,  in  poor  Davy’s  shoes,  sat  at  a  little 
table  in  the  window.  The  six  lords  filed  in  according  to 
their  degrees  of  ranking.  Ruthven,  behind  Lindsay, 
jogged  his  elbow:  ‘See  the  pair  of  them  there.  Betrayed, 
man,  betrayed  !  ’ 

None  of  them  was  pleased  to  see  that  Moray  had  been 
admitted  first,  and  yet  none  of  them  in  his  heart  had 
expected  anything  else.  It  was  the  King  who  drew  all 


278 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


their  reproaches :  in  some  sense  or  another  Moray  was 
chartered  in  villainy. 

The  Queen,  looking  straight  before  her,  moistened  her 
lips  twice,  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  very  slowly  and 
distinctly. 

‘  I  have  sent  for  you,  my  lords,  that  I  may  hear  in  the 
presence  of  the  King  my  consort,  and  of  these  my  kindred 
and  friends,  what  your  wisdoms  may  have  to  declare 
concerning  some  late  doings  of  yours.  As  I  ask  without 
heat,  so  I  shall  expect  to  be  answered.’  Pausing  here,  she 
looked  down  at  her  hands  placid  in  her  lap.  So  uncon¬ 
scious  did  she  seem  of  anything  but  her  own  dignity  and 
sweet  estate,  you  might  have  taken  her  for  a  girl  at  her 
first  Communion. 

The  Earl  of  Morton  moved  out  a  step,  and  made  the 
best  speech  he  could  of  it.  He  had  the  gift,  permitted  to 
slow-witted  men,  of  appearing  more  honest  than  he  was  ; 
for  tardiness  of  utterance  is  easily  mistaken  for  gravity, 
and  gravity  (in  due  season)  for  uprightness.  One  has  got 
into  the  idle  habit  of  connecting  roguery  with  fluency. 
But  it  must  be  allowed  to  Morton  that  he  did  not  attempt 
to  disavow  his  colleagues.  If  he  urged  his  own  great 
wrongs  as  an  excuse  for  violence,  he  claimed  that  the 
wrongs  of  Scotland  had  cried  to  him  louder  still.  He  now 
held  the  palace,  he  said,  for  the  prevention  of  mischief, 
and  should  be  glad  to  be  relieved  of  the  heavy  duty. 
Then  he  talked  roundabout — of  requitals  in  general — how 
violent  griefs  provoked  violent  medicines — how  men  will 
fight  tooth  and  nail  for  their  consciences.  Lastly  he  made 
bolder.  ‘  If  I  fear  not,  madam,  to  invoke  the  holy  eyes  of 
my  God  upon  my  doings,  it  would  not  become  me  to  quail 
under  your  Majesty’s.  And  if  that  which  I  hold  dearest  is 
enchained,  I  should  be  a  recreant  knight  indeed  if  I  failed 
of  a  rescue.’  He  glanced  toward  the  King  at  this  point; 
but  the  young  man  might  have  been  a  carven  effigy.  His 
end  therefore  —  for  he  knew  now  that  he  had  been  betrayed 
—  was  a  lame  one :  a  plea  for  mutual  recovery  of  esteem, 
an  act  of  oblivion,  articles  to  be  drawn  up  and  signed, 
et  ccetera.  The  Queen,  placidly  regarding  her  fingers, 
drew  on  the  others  after  him  one  by  one. 


CH.  VII 


AFTERTASTE 


279 


The  Earl  of  Glencairn  had  nothing  to  say,  as  he  proved 
by  every  word  he  uttered;  the  Earl  of  Argyll  began  a 
speech,  but  caught  his  wife’s  eye  and  never  finished  it. 
Lord  Lindsay,  an  honest,  hot-gospel,  rough  sort  of  man  — 
who  might  have  been  a  Knox  in  his  way  —  said  a  great 
deal.  But  he  was  long  over  it,  and  slow,  and  prolix ;  and 
the  Queen  none  too  patient.  At  4  Secondly,  madam,  you 

shall  mark - ’  she  began  to  tap  with  her  toe ;  and  then  one 

yet  more  impatient  broke  in,  feeling  that  he  must  shriek 
under  his  irritation  unless  he  could  relieve  it  by  speech. 
This  was  Lord  Ruthven,  a  monomaniac,  with  one  cry  for 
the  world  and  one  upon  whom  to  cry  it.  If  he  spoke  his 
rages  to  the  Queen  in  form,  he  aimed  them  at  the  King  in 
substance,  and  never  once  looked  elsewhere,  or  threatened 
with  his  finger  any  other  than  that  stock-headed  starer  out 
of  painted  eyes.  He  thrust  away  Lindsay  with  a  pawing 
hand,  and  —  ‘  Oh,  madam,  will  you  listen  to  me  now  ?  ’  says 
he.  ‘We  speak  our  pieces  before  ye  like  bairns  on  a 
bench,  who  have  acted  not  long  since  like  men,  and  men 
wronged.  And  who  are  we,  when  all’s  said,  to  justify 
ourselves  ?  Who  was  the  most  aggrieved  among  us  ?  Let 
that  man  speak.  Who  had  most  cause  to  cry  out,  Down 
with  the  thief  of  my  honour  ?  Let  him  say  it  now.  What 
was  our  injury  compared  to  that  man’s?  If  we  played  in 
his  scene,  who  gave  out  the  parts  ?  If  we  laid  hands  upon 
our  Queen,  by  whose  command  did  we  so  ?  And  into 
whose  hands  did  we  commit  her  royal  person  ?  Let  him 
answer,  and  beat  us  down  with  his  words,  if  to  any  hands 
but  his  own.’  Wrought  up  by  his  own  eloquence,  driving 
home  his  terrible  questions,  he  had  advanced  unawares 
close  to  the  man  he  threatened.  The  King  jumped 
back  with  a  short  cry;  but  the  Queen,  who  had  been 
straining  forward  to  listen,  like  a  racer  at  his  mark, 
interposed. 

‘I  am  listening,’  she  said;  ‘continue,  Ruthven.’ 

Ruthven,  at  this  check,  began  to  cast  about  for  his 
words.  He  had  lost  his  flow.  ‘  As  for  yon  Davy,  madam, 
I’ll  not  deny  airt  and  pairt  in  his  taking - ’ 

‘  Why,  how  should  you  indeed  ?  ’  says  the  Queen,  smiling 
rather  sharply. 


28o 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


‘  I  say  I  will  not,  madam,’  says  Ruthven,  flurried ;  then 
with  a  savage  snarl  he  turned  short  on  the  King  and  fleshed 
his  tooth  there. 

‘  And  you !  ’  he  raved  at  him  :  ‘  deny  it  you,  if  you  dare  !  ’ 

The  King  went  white  as  a  sheet. 

‘  Man,’  said  the  Earl  of  Morton  finely,  ‘  hold  your  peace. 
I  lead  this  company.’ 

Lord  Ruthven  said  no  more,  and  Morton  took  up  anew 
his  parable.  What  he  did  was  well  done  :  he  did  not  give 
ground,  yet  was  conciliatory.  It  was  a  case  for  terms,  he 
said.  Let  articles  be  drawn  up,  lands  be  restored,  offices 
stand  as  before  the  slaughter,  the  old  forfeitures  be  over¬ 
looked,  religion  on  either  side  be  as  it  had  been :  in  fact, 
let  that  come  which  all  hoped  for,  the  Golden  Age  of 
Peace. 

The  Queen  consulted  with  her  brother,  ignored  her 
husband,  then  accepted.  Lethington  was  to  draw  up 
articles  and  submit  them.  For  Peace’s  sake,  if  it  were 
possible,  she  would  sign  them.  Rising  from  her  throne, 
she  dismissed  her  gaolers.  She  took  Moray’s  arm,  just 
touched  the  King’s  with  two  fingers,  and  walked  through 
the  lines  made  by  her  friends,  a  page  going  before  to  clear 
the  way.  The  moment  she  was  in  her  room  she  sent  Des- 
Essars  out  with  a  letter,  which  she  had  ready-written,  for 
the  Earl  of  Bothwell. 

Left  with  his  fellow-tragedians,  Ruthven  for  a  time  was 
ungovernable,  with  no  words  but  ‘black  traitor  —  false, 
perjuring  beast  of  a  thief  ’  —  and  the  like.  Morton,  to  the 
full  as  bartered  as  himself,  did  not  try  to  hold  him.  He 
too  was  working  into  a  steady  resentment,  and  kindling  a 
grudge  which  would  smoulder  the  longer  but  burn  the 
more  fiercely  than  the  madman’s  spluttering  bonfire.  And 
he  was  against  all  sudden  follies.  When  Ruthven,  foaming, 
howled  that  he  would  stab  the  King  in  the  back,  Morton 
grumbled,  ‘  Too  quick  a  death  for  him  ’ ;  and  Lindsay  said 
drily,  ‘No  death  at  all.  Yon  lad  is  wiser  than  Davy  — 
wears  a  shirt  that  would  turn  any  blade.’  ‘Then  I’ll  have 
at  him  in  his  bed,’  says  Ruthven.  And  Lindsay,  to  clinch 
the  matter,  scoffs  at  him  with,  *  Pooh,  man,  the  Queen  is 
his  shirt  of  mail.  Are  you  blind  ?  ’ 


CH.  VII 


AFTERTASTE 


281 


Into  this  yeasty  flood,  with  courage  truly  remarkable, 
the  Earl  of  Moray  steered  his  barque,  coming  sedately 
back  from  his  escort  of  the  Queen.  At  first  they  were 
so  curious  about  his  visit  that  they  forgot  the  vehement 
suspicion  there  was  of  treachery  from  him  also.  The  pre¬ 
cision  of  his  steering  was  admirable,  but  he  ran  too  close 
to  the  rocks  when  he  spoke  of  the  Queen  as  ‘  a  young  lady 
in  delicate  health,  for  whom,  considering  her  eager  temper 
and  frail  body,  the  worst  might  have  been  feared  in  the 
late  violent  doings.’ 

Here  Morton  cut  in.  ‘  I  call  God  to  witness,  my  lord, 
and  you,  too,  Ruthven,  shall  answer  for  me,  whether  or  not 
I  forbade  the  slaughter  of  that  fellow  before  her  face.  For 
I  feared,  my  lord,  that  very  health  of  hers.’ 

‘  And  you  did  well  to  fear  it,  my  lord,’  said  the  Earl  of 
Moray ;  and  that  was  the  turn  too  much. 

Said  Ruthven  to  him  dangerously,  ‘  You  make  me  sick 
of  my  work.’  He  peered  with  grinning  malice  into  the 
inscrutable  face.  ‘  Tell  me,  you,  my  lord  of  Moray,  what 
did  you  look  for  in  the  business  ?  What  thought  you  would 
come  of  murder  at  the  feet  of  a  woman  big?  God  in 
heaven,  sir,  what  is  it  you  look  for  ?  what  is  it  you  think  of 
day  after  day  ?  ’ 

Lord  Moray  blinked  —  but  no  more.  *  Hush,  hush,  Lord 
Ruthven,  lest  you  utter  what  would  grieve  all  who  love 
Scotland.’ 

Ruthven  howled.  ‘Man,  do  you  talk  of  Scotland? 
Are  we  friends  here  ?  Are  we  in  the  kirk  ?  If  we  are  in 
council,  for  God’s  sake  talk  your  mind.  Ah  !  —  talk  of  that, 

my  good  lord - ’  he  pointed  to  the  empty  throne.  ‘  Man, 

man,  man!  there’s  your  kirk  and  your  altar  —  you  prater 
about  Scotland’s  love.’  For  a  moment  he  fairly  withered 
the  man ;  but  then,  as  drowning  in  a  flood-tide  of  despair, 
he  lifted  up  his  hands  and  covered  his  tormented  eyes. 
‘Oh,  I  am  sick  just,’  he  said,  ‘sick  of  your  lying  —  sick,  I 
tell  you,  sick  —  sick  to  death  !  ’ 

The  Earl  of  Moray  made  a  little  sign  with  his  eyebrows 
and  closed  eyes ;  and  they  left  him  alone  with  Ruthven. 
It  should  never  be  denied  of  this  man  that  he  had  the 
courage  of  his  father’s  race. 


282 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


The  ‘  Articles  of  Peace  and  Oblivion  ’  were  drawn  up, 
tendered  on  knees,  and  overlooked  by  her  Majesty. 

‘  I  see  your  name  here,  Mr.  Secretary,  as  in  need  of 
mercy,’  she  said,  with  a  finger  on  the  place.  Of  course 
she  had  known  that  he  was  up  to  the  chin  in  the  plot, 
but  she  could  rarely  resist  making  the  sensitive  man 
wriggle. 

He  murmured  something  unusually  fatuous,  painfully 
conscious  of  his  standing. 

‘  Oh,  sir,’  she  said,  ‘  if  you  seek  for  my  pardon  you  shall 
have  it.  I  am  contented  with  a  few  things.  But  go  you  now 
and  sue  for  it  in  the  maids’  closet.  You  will  find  Fleming 
there.  I  cannot  answer  for  her,  I  warn  you ;  for  if  you  say 
to  a  maid,  “  Love  me,  love  my  dog,”  it  is  possible  she  may 
rejoin,  “Serve  me,  serve  my  mistress.”  That,  at  least,  is 
the  old-fashioned  pleading  in  the  courts  of  love.’ 

He  was  greatly  confused,  the  obsequious,  fertile  man, 
and  she  greatly  entertained. 

‘  Go,  Mr.  Secretary,  and  pray  you  find  some  phrases  as 
you  go.  Tongues  ring  sharply  in  the  closet.’  She  signed 
the  Articles,  and  he  was  backing  himself  out  when  she 
stopped  him  with  a  seemingly  careless  word.  4  Ah,  I  had 
almost  forgot.  These  Articles  breathe  peace.’  She  took 
them  from  him  and  read  the  words.  ‘  “  Peace,  mutual 
forbearance  and  goodwill  ” :  very  fair  words,  upon  which 
we  must  hope  for  fair  performance.  The  guard  at  the 
doors  and  gates  is  removed  no  doubt  ?  See  to  that,  Mr. 
Secretary,  before  you  can  hope  for  pardon  in  the  maids’ 
closet.  Your  lady  will  not  love  you  the  more  because  you 
keep  her  in  a  cage.’ 

This  was  kittle  work,  as  they  say.  Unless  the  guard 
were  off  she  could  never  get  out.  Lethington,  however, 
took  the  hint,  acted  upon  his  own  responsibility,  and  found 
none  to  stop  him.  The  lords  —  masters  of  Holyrood  —  were 
otherwise  employed  :  Lord  Ruthven  spoke  of  hanging  him¬ 
self  ;  the  Earl  of  Morton  was  inclining  to  think  that  Articles 
might,  for  this  once,  make  all  safe.  Alone,  the  Earl  of 
Moray  admonished  his  servant,  not  for  removing  the  guard, 
but  for  not  having  done  so  earlier.  What  peace  he  made 
afterwards  in  the  maids’  closet  hath  never  been  revealed. 


AFTERTASTE 


CH.  VII 


283 


The  Queen  went  to  bed  very  early  and  slept  like  a  child 
in  arms.  Everything  was  in  train. 

At  two  o’clock  in  the  morning  the  King  was  called,  but 
answered  the  summons  himself,  fully  dressed,  armed  and 
cloaked. 

*  I  am  ready,’  he  said,  before  the  messenger  could  speak. 
‘  Fetch  Standen.  I  go  to  the  Queen.’ 

He  crept  along  the  passage  to  the  dimly  lighted  cabinet, 
where  he  had  of  late  seen  murder,  and  had  to  wait  there  as 
best  he  could.  He  spent  the  time  in  walking  up  and  down 
—  an  exercise  whereby  a  man,  in  fear  already,  gains  terror 
with  every  pace:  so  agitated  was  he  that  when,  after  an 
age  of  squittering  misery,  the  Queen  came  in  deeply 
hooded,  he  forgot  everything  and  burst  out  with  ‘  O  God, 
madam,  make  haste  !  ’ 

She  gave  him  no  answer,  but  poured  herself  some  wine, 
added  water,  and  drank.  It  was  terrible  to  him  to  see  how 
much  at  her  ease  she  was,  sipping  her  drink,  looking  about 
the  cabinet,  recalling  critically  (if  the  truth  is  to  be  told) 
the  stasimons  of  the  late  tragic  scene. 

Mary  Seton  came  in,  and  Des-Essars,  labouring  with  a 
portmantle  and  some  pistols. 

‘  Drink,  my  children,’  she  bade  them  in  French,  and  they 
obeyed,  taking  stay  and  leisure  from  her. 

The  King  bit  his  nails,  fretted  and  fumed —  had  not  had 
the  nerve  to  drink,  even  if  he  had  had  the  invitation. 

Standen  stood  by  the  wall,  stolid  as  his  habit  was  —  the 
flaxen,  solemn  English  youth,  with  but  one  cherubic  face 
for  a  rape,  a  funeral,  a  battle,  a  christening,  or  the  sacra¬ 
ment.  The  Queen  drew  Seton’s  attention  to  him  in  a 
whisper,  and  made  the  girl  laugh. 

Presently  they  heard  a  step,  and  then  Stewart  of 
Traquair  was  to  be  seen,  stalwart  and  watchful,  in  the 
doorway. 

‘  Ready,  Traquair  ?  ’  —  the  Queen’s  voice. 

‘  All’s  ready,  ma’am.’ 

She  fastened  her  hood,  patting  the  bows  flat.  ‘  Come, 
Seton,  come,  Baptist,’  she  said,  and  gave  her  hand  into 
Traquair’s. 


284 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


He  kissed  it  before  he  led  her  away.  Des-Essars  went 
first  with  a  shaded  lantern. 

The  great  dark  house  was  perfectly  quiet  as  they  went 
downstairs  and  through  the  chapel  by  the  tombs  of  the 
kings.  Just  here,  however,  the  Queen  stopped  and  called 
back  Des-Essars.  ‘  Where  does  he  lie  ?  ’  she  asked  him  ; 
and  he  pointed  out  the  stone  —  she  was  standing  almost 
upon  it  —  and  for  many  a  day  remembered  the  curious 
regard  she  had  for  it :  how  she  hovered,  as  it  were,  over 
the  place,  looking  at  it,  smiling  quietly  towards  it,  as  if  it 
afforded  her  some  quaint  thought.  Words  have  been  put 
into  her  mouth  which,  according  to  him,  she  never  said  — 
melodramatic  words  they  are,  rough  makeshifts  of  some 
kind  of  art  embodying  what  was  to  come.  According  to 
Des-Essars,  she  said  nothing,  neither  resolved,  nor  pro¬ 
mised,  nor  predicted ;  nothing  broke  her  smiling,  consider¬ 
ing  silence  over  this  new  grave. 

‘  To  see  her  there,’  he  says,  ‘  in  the  lantern-light,  so  easy, 
so  absorbed,  so  amused ,  was  terrible  to  more  witnesses  than 
one.  It  opened  to  me  secret  doors  never  yet  suspected. 
Was  murder  only  curious  to  her  ?  Was  horror  a  kind  of 
joy  ?  ’ 

But  it  frightened  Mary  Seton  out  of  her  courage.  ‘  Oh, 
what  do  you  see  in  there,  madam?  ’  she  whispered.  *  What 
moves  your  mirth  in  his  grave  ?  ’ 

The  Queen  turned  her  head  as  if  shaken  out  of  a  stare. 
She  met  Mary  Seton’s  eyes  in  the  lantern-light,  and 
laughed. 

‘  Come  away,  madam,  come  away.  Look  no  more. 
There’s  a  taint.’ 

‘Yes,  yes,’  says  the  Queen  ;  ‘  I  am  ready.  Where  is  the 
King?’ 

‘The  King  is  gone,  madam,’  said  Stewart  of  Traquair; 
‘  and  I  think  your  Majesty  will  do  well  to  be  after  him.’ 

This  was  true.  Arthur  Erskine,  holding  the  horses  out¬ 
side  the  town  wall,  told  her  that  the  King  had  ridden  for¬ 
ward  at  once,  at  a  gallop,  with  his  man  Standen.  She  was 
therefore  left  with  but  two  —  himself  and  Traquair  —  for 
escort ;  but  he  assured  her  that  every  step  had  been  taken, 
she  would  be  in  no  sort  of  danger. 


CH.  VII 


AFTERTASTE 


285 


‘  Danger !  ’  she  said,  laughing  lightly.  ‘  No,  no,  Erskine, 
I  do  not  fear  it.  Ruthven’s  dagger  seeks  not  my 
back.’ 

They  lifted  her  up,  the  rest  mounted  after  her;  they 
walked  their  horses  clear  of  the  suburb.  After  some  half- 
mile  or  more  of  steady  trotting  the  Queen  reined  up  and 
stopped  the  party.  She  listened  ;  they  all  did.  Far  away 
you  could  bear  the  regular  galloping  of  a  horse,  pulsing  in 
the  dark  like  some  muffled  pendulum.  Now  and  again 
another’s  broke  into  it  and  confused  the  rhythm. 

‘  There  rides  in  haste  our  sovereign  lord,’  said  the 
Queen.  ‘  Come,  we  must  follow  him.’ 

By  Niddry  House  — under  the  lee  of  the  wall — she  found 
the  Earls  of  Huntly  and  Bothwell,  Lord  Seton,  and  a 
company  of  twenty  horsemen  waiting.  The  hour  had 
gone  five. 

‘God  save  Scotland!’  had  called  Traquair,  and  Both- 
well’s  strident  voice  had  countercried,  ‘  God  save  the  Queen 
of  Scotland !  ’ 

‘  That  voice  hath  blithe  assurance,’  said  she  when  she 
heard  it.  She  joyed  in  adventure  and  adventurers. 

She  asked  for  news  of  the  King.  ‘  Where  is  my  consort, 
Lord  Bothwell  ?  Rode  he  this  way  ?  ’ 

‘  Madam,  he  did,  and  had  a  most  mischievous  scare  of 
us.  We  knew  him  by  the  way  he  damned  us  all.  But 
he’s  well  away  by  now.  You  may  hear  him  yet.’ 

She  gloomed  at  that.  ‘  Ay,’  said  she,  ‘  I  have  heard 
him.  I  shall  always  hear  him,  I  think.’  Then  she  shivered. 

‘  Let  us  ride  on,  sirs  ;  the  night  is  chill.’ 

Nobody  spoke  much.  Lord  Bothwell  kept  close  to  her 
right  hand,  Lord  Huntly  to  her  left.  They  would  change 
horses  at  Gladsmuir. 

The  tide  was  breaking  over  wet  rocks,  one  pale  streak 
of  light  burnished  the  rim  of  the  sea,  as  Lord  Bothwell 
lifted  down  his  Queen.  Astounding  to  feel  how  fresh  and 
feat  she  was  !  The  dark  hull  of  a  castle  could  just  be  seen, 
suspended  as  it  seemed  above  a  cloud-bank,  with  sea-birds 
looming  suddenly  large  or  fading  to  be  small  as  they  swept 


286 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


in  and  out  of  the  fog.  Little  tired  waves  broke  and  recoiled 
near  by  upon  the  weedy  stones. 

‘  Dunbar,  madam,’  says  Bothwell,  his  hands  still  holding 
her  —  ‘  and  the  good  grey  guard  of  the  water.’ 

The  King,  they  told  her,  had  been  in  bed  those  three 
hours. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

king’s  evil 

Sir  James  Melvill,  wise  and  mature,  travelled  gentle¬ 
man,  made  nothing  of  a  ride  to  Dunbar  in  the  slush  of 
snow.  He  was  careful  to  take  it  before  the  dawn,  and 
arrived  late,  to  find  the  Queen  not  visible.  They  told  him 
she  had  come  in  some  hours  after  daybreak,  exhausted, 
but  not  nearly  so  exhausted  as  her  horse.  It  was  hardly 
likely  she  would  rise  the  day. 

‘You’ll  let  her  Majesty  know  that  I’m  here,  with  my 
service  to  ye,  Mr.  Erskine.  And  since  ye’re  so  obliging 
I’ll  take  a  mouthful  just  of  your  spiced  wine.’  Thus  Sir 
James;  who  was  sipping  at  this  comfortable  cup  when  the 
Earl  of  Bothwell  came  in,  stamping  the  winter  from  his 
boots,  and  recalled  him  to  his  privileges.  To  see  him 
make  his  bow  to  a  lord  was  to  get  a  lesson  in  the  niceties 
of  precedence.  He  knew  to  the  turn  of  a  hair  how  far  to 
go,  and  unless  the  occasion  were  extraordinary,  never 
departed  from  the  Decreet  of  Ranking.  In  the  present 
case,  however,  all  things  considered,  he  may  have  judged, 

‘  This  Earl  has  merited  the  salutation  of  a  Prince-Bishop.’ 
That  presupposed,  the  thing  was  well  done.  Sir  James’s 
heels  went  smartly  together  — but  without  a  click,  which 
would  have  been  too  military  for  the  day ;  the  body  was 
slightly  bent,  with  one  hand  across  the  breast.  But  his 
head  fell  far,  and  remained  down-hung  in  deepest  reverence 
of  the  hero.  It  is  exactly  thus  that  a  devotional  traveller 
in  a  foreign  town  might  salute,  but  not  adore,  the  passing 
Host  ‘I  will  not  bow  the  knee  to  Baal;  no,  but  I 

287 


288  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk  ii 

will  honour  this  people’s  God.’  And  thus  bowed  Sir 
James. 

‘  Now,  who  graces  me  so  highly  ?  ’  cried  Both  well  when 
he  saw  him ;  and  immediately,  ‘  Eh,  sirs,  it  is  honest  Sir 
James  !  So  the  wind  hath  veered  in  town  already  !  Man, 
you’re  my  weathercock  in  this  realm.  Your  hand,  Sir 
James,  your  hand,  your  hand.  Never  stoop  that  venerable 
pow  to  me.’ 

‘  Always  the  servant  of  your  lordship,’  murmured  Sii 
James,  much  gratified. 

‘Havers,  James!’  says  Bothwell,  and  sat  upon  the 
table.  He  swung  his  leg  and  looked  at  his  sea  boots  as 
he  talked,  reflecting  aloud,  rather  than  conversing. 

‘  The  Queen  is  sound  asleep,’  he  said,  ‘  as  well  enough 
she  may  be.  Good  sakes,  my  man,  what  a  proud  and 
gladsome  lady  have  we  there !  I  tell  you,  I  have  seen 
young  men  ride  into  action  more  tardily  than  she  into  the 
perilous  dark.  She  flung  herself  to  the  arms  of  foul 
weather  like  a  lammock  to  his  dam’s  dug.  You’d  have 
said  ’  —  he  lowered  his  voice  —  ‘you’d  have  said  she  was  at 
the  hunting  of  a  hare,  if  you’d  seen  her  gallop  —  with 
Adonis  fleeting  before  her.’ 

Sir  James  nodded,  as  if  to  say  —  ‘A  hint  is  more  than 
enough  for  me.’ 

‘  Well !  ’  cried  Bothwell,  ‘  well !  What  scared  the  gowk, 
then  ?  ’ 

‘My  lord,’  said  Sir  James,  ‘you  must  observe,  he  had 
been  by  when  Lord  Ruthven’s  knife  was  at  work,  slicing 
Davy.  He  knew  the  way  of  it,  d’ye  see  ?  ’ 

Bothwell  flung  up  his  head.  ‘  Ay !  he  was  all  in  a 
flutter  of  fear.  The  bitter  fools  that  they  are !  Every 
traitor  of  them  betraying  the  other,  and  a  scamper  who 
shall  do  mischief  and  be  first  away.  But  this  one  here  — 
he's  none  too  safe,  ye  ken.  He’s  dug  his  own  grave,  I 
doubt.  Before  long  time  you  and  I,  Melvill,  shall  see  him 
by  Davy’s  side.’ 

‘  Ah,  my  lord  of  Bothwell - ’  Sir  J ames  was  scandalised. 

‘Fear  nothing,  man  —  I  must  talk.  Here,  in  this  place, 
what  is  he  ?  Who  heeds  him,  where  he  comes  or  whither  he 
goes  ?  Why,  this  skipjack  of  Brabant  is  the  better  man  !  ’ 


CH.  VIII 


KING’S  EVIL 


289 


The  skipjack  of  Brabant  was  Des-Essars,  come  down 
to  call  Lord  Bothwell  to  the  Queen.  She  was  about  to 
hold  a  council,  and  Melvill  was  to  abide  the  upshot. 

‘  Is  the  King  to  be  there,  do  you  know,  Baptist  ?  ’  says 
my  lord,  his  hand  on  the  lad’s  shoulder. 

‘The  King  sleeps,  my  lord,’  he  replied.  ‘I  heard  her 
Majesty  say  that  he  could  not  do  better.’ 

‘  Her  Majesty  has  the  rights  of  him  by  now,’  says 
Bothwell.  ‘Well  —  we  shall  work  none  the  worse  without 
him.  Sir  James,  your  servant.  If  I  can  help  you,  you 
shall  see  her.’ 

‘  So  your  lordship  will  bind  me  fast  to  your  service,’ 
bowed  Sir  James,  and  watched  the  pair  depart.  He 
observed  that  Des-Essars’  crown  was  level  with  the  Earl’s 
cheek-bone. 

Let  me  deal  with  the  fruit  of  this  council  while  I  may. 
Sir  James  took  a  seed  of  it,  as  it  were,  back  to  Edinburgh, 
planted  and  watered  it,  and  saw  an  abundant  harvest,  of 
sweet  and  bitter  mixed.  As  for  instance,  —  to  the  Earls  of 
Moray  and  Argyll  went  full  pardons  of  all  offences ;  to 
Glencairn  and  Rothes  the  hope  of  some  such  thing  upon 
proof  of  good  disposition  —  just  enough  to  separate  men  not 
quite  dangerous  from  men  desperate.  To  them,  those 
desperate  men,  came  the  last  shock.  Writs  of  treason 
were  out  against  the  Earl  of  Morton,  Lords  Ruthven  and 
Lindsay  and  the  Master  of  Lindsay,  against  Archibald 
Douglas  of  Whittingehame,  William  Kirkcaldy  of  Grange, 
Ker  of  Fawdonsyde  and  their  likes;  also,  definitely  and 
beyond  doubt,  against  William  Maitland,  younger  of 
Lethington.  The  Secretary  had  to  thank  Lord  Bothwell 
for  that,  for  the  Queen  would  have  spared  him  if  she  could 
for  Mary  Fleming’s  sake.  These  writs  were  served  that 
very  night  and  copies  affixed  to  the  Market-cross.  The 
smaller  fry  —  men  in  Morton’s  livery,  jackals  and  foxes  of 
the  doors  —  were  to  be  taken  as  they  fell  in  and  hanged  at 
conveniency.  Many  were  apprehended  in  their  beds  before 
Sir  James  could  be  snug  in  his  own. 

One  may  look,  too,  for  a  moment  at  the  last  conference 
of  them  that  of  late  had  been  masters  of  Holyrood.  It  was 


290 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


bk.  n 


had  in  Lord  Morton’s  big  house  —  a  desultory  colloquy 
broken  by  long  glooms. 

‘If  you  are  still  for  hanging  yourself,  Ruthven,’  said  my 
Lord  Morton,  in  one  of  these  pauses,  ‘  you’ve  time.’ 

And  Ruthven  turned  his  eyes  about  with  evident  pain. 
Those  thought,  who  looked  at  him,  that  he  had  not  so 
much  time.  He  was  horribly  ill,  with  fever  in  bones  and 
blood.  ‘  I’m  not  for  that  now,  my  lord,’  he  said,  ‘  I  have  a 
better  game  than  that  in  hand.’ 

‘  I  could  name  you  one  if  you  were  needing  it,’  said 
Morton  again,  with  a  glance  towards  Archie  Douglas. 
Listening  and  watching,  the  grey-headed  youth  chuckled, 
and  rubbed  his  dry  hands  together. 

‘  Ay,’  said  Ruthven,  observing  the  action,  and  sickening 
of  actor  and  it,  ‘  slough  your  skin,  snake,  and  bite  the 
better.’ 

‘  Man,  Ruthven,’  said  Morton  impatiently,  ‘you  talk  too 
much  of  what  you  will  do,  and  spend  too  much  of  your 
spleen  on  them  that  would  serve  ye  if  ye  would  let  them. 
Body  of  me,  we  have  time  before  us  to  scheme  a  great 
propyne  for  this  good  town  that  spews  us  out  like  so  much 
garbage.’ 

‘We  have  that,  cousin,’  says  Archie,  ‘if  but  we  accord 
together.’ 

‘  Ah,  traitors  all,  traitors  all !  ’  Ruthven  was  muttering 
to  himself ;  then  (as  he  thought  of  the  chief  of  traitors) 
burst  out  —  ‘When  we  have  done  his  butcher’s  work  —  he 
heels  us  out  of  doors !  Sublime,  he  washes  his  hands  and 
goes  to  bed.  We  are  the  night-men,  look  you.  Foh,  we 
smell  of  our  trade  !  what  king  could  endure  us  ?  Oh,  lying, 
sleek,  milky  traitor  !  ’ 

Lord  Morton,  whose  rage  lay  much  deeper,  thought  all 
this  just  wind  and  vapour.  ‘To  fret  and  cry  treachery, 
Ruthven !  Pooh,  a  French  trick,  never  like  to  save  your 
face.  Why,  poor  splutterer,  nothing  will  save  that  but  to 
mar  another’s  face.’ 

‘Your  talk  against  my  talk,’  cried  Ruthven;  ‘and  will 
you  do  it  any  better  ?  ’ 

Lord  Morton  flushed  to  a  heavy  crimson  colour,  and 
his  eyes  were  almost  hidden.  ‘  Ay,  mark  me,  that  I  will. 


CH.  VIII 


KING’S  EVIL 


291 


I  will  score  him  deep  with  this  infamy.’  He  went  to  the 
window  and  stood  there  alone.  Nobody  could  draw  him 
into  talk  again. 

There  was  much  bustle  in  Edinburgh  during  the  week, 
and  more  suitors  to  the  Earl  of  Moray  than  he  had  time  to 
see.  Mr.  Secretary  got  no  joy  out  of  him  ;  he  was  kind  to 
the  Earl  of  Morton  and  spoke  him  many  hopeful  words ; 
he  shook  his  finger  at  Lord  Ruthven.  ‘  Fie,  my  lord,’  he 
said,  ‘  you  should  wear  a  finer  face.  Turn  you  to  your  God, 
Lord  Ruthven,  and  store  up  grain  against  the  lean  years  to 
come.  Root  up  these  darnels  from  your  garden-plot,  lest 
they  choke  the  good  seed  sowed  in  you.  Let  stout  Mr. 
Knox  be  your  exemplar,  then ;  behold  how  he  can  harden 
his  brows.  Farewell,  my  lord  :  be  sure  of  my  friendship  ; 
take  kindly  to  the  soil  of  England.  There  are  stout  hearts 
in  Newcastle,  a  godly  congregation,  to  which  I  commend 
you.’ 

Ruthven  turned  away  from  him  without  a  word  to  say, 
and  never  saw  him  again.  With  Morton,  Lindsay,  and  the 
rest,  he  took  the  English  road.  Mr.  Secretary  Lethington 
went  to  my  lord  Atholl’s  in  the  west ;  my  lord  of  Argyll 
became  a  Queen’s  man.  Within  the  bare  week  after  the 
flight  to  Dunbar  the  ragged  corse  of  the  Italian  lay  as 
untrodden  by  enemies  as  if  Jerusalem  had  been  his  sepul¬ 
ture.  But  we  are  out-running  our  matter:  we  must  be 
back  at  Dunbar  with  Queen  Mary. 

From  that  castle  Lord  Bothwell  wrote  to  his  wife,  to 
this  effect:  — 

Attend  me  not  these  many  days.  The  alders  may  bud  by 
Hermitage  Water  before  I  kiss  the  neck  of  my  dear.  For  such 
business  as  here  we  have  was  never  done  in  the  Debatable  Land 
since  Solway  Moss  was  reddened ;  such  a  riding  in  and  forth  of 
messengers,  such  a  sealing  of  dooms,  rewards  and  forfeitures  —  no, 
nor  such  a  flocking  of  lords  anxious  to  prove  their  wisdoms  in 
their  loves.  .  .  .  She  is  hearted  like  a  man.  She  rises  early  every 
day,  and  sets  to  her  blessing  and  banning  of  men’s  lives  with  as 
sharp  an  edge  as  I  to  my  beef  at  noon.  She  has  a  care  for  all 
who  have  served  or  dis-served  her,  and  is  no  more  frugal  of  her 
embracing  than  of  her  spurning  heel.  One  man  only  she  hath 


292 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


clean  out  of  mind ;  for  him  she  hath  neither  inclination  nor 
disgust.  She  asketh  not  his  company,  neither  seeketh  to  have 
him  away.  He  is  as  though  he  were  not  —  still  air  in  the  chamber, 
for  which  you  ope  not  the  window,  as  needing  more  of  it,  nor 
shut-to  the  window,  for  fear  of  more.  Doth  he  enter  her  presence 
—  why  not  ?  the  room  is  wide.  Doth  he  go  out  —  why  not?  the 
world  is  wider.  How  this  came  about  it  were  too  long  to  tell 
you ;  this  only  will  I  say,  that  it  came  late,  for  at  her  first  alight¬ 
ing  here  she  feared  him  mortally,  as  if  she  viewed  in  him  the 
ghost  of  her  old  self.  That  was  a  sickness  of  the  mind,  not 
against  nature  ;  now  gone,  and  he  with  it.  Needs  must  I  admire 
her  for  the  banishment.  .  .  . 

But  to  return.  Business  ended  —  more  sharply  than  you  would 
believe  by  any  young  head  but  your  own  —  she  wins  to  the  open 
weather.  She  walks  abroad,  she  takes  my  arm.  Yes,  and  indeed, 
I  am  grown  to  be  somewhat  in  this  realm.  She  rides  o’er  the 
brae;  your  servant  at  her  stirrup ;  she  sails  the  sea,  your  lover  at 
the  helm.  You  belie  your  own  courage  when  you  doubt  this 
princess’s,  my  dear  heart.  For,  to  say  nothing  of  her  trust  in  me, 
which  you  will  own  to  be  bold  in  any  lady  (and  most  bold  in  her¬ 
self),  she  has  the  mettle  of  a  blood-horse,  whom  to  stroke  is  to 
sting.  She  is  far  gone  with  child,  and  you  may  guess  with  what 
zest,  seeing  her  regard  for  her  partner  in  it.  In  truth,  she  hath  a 
horror ;  because  her  aim  is  to  forget  what  she  can  never  forgive, 
and  so  every  drag  upon  her  leaping  spirit  seems  to  remind  her  of 
him  and  his  deeds.  Oh,  but  she  suffers  and  is  strong  !  .  .  .  I 
hear  you  say  to  me,  ‘  Fie,  you  are  bewitched.  A  spell  !  A 
spell  !  ’  —  but  I  laugh  at  you.  There  is  a  still-faced,  raven-haired 
witch-wife  in  Liddesdale  working  upon  me  under  the  moon.  Aha, 
Mistress  Sanctity,  watch  for  me  o’  nights. 

Yestreen  the  Q.  spake  of  your  Serenity.  ‘  She  hates  me,’ 
quoth  she,  ‘  for  her  father’s  sake,  in  whose  cruel  disgrace  I  vow  I  had 
no  part ;  but  I  shall  make  her  love  me  yet.’  And  when  I  laughed 
somewhat,  she  gave  a  thring  of  the  shoulder.  ‘  I’ld  have  you 
know,  Lord  Bothwell,’  saith  she,  ‘  that  there’s  no  wife  nor  bairn 
in  this  land  can  refuse  the  kisses  of  my  mouth.’  Thinks  I,  ‘You 
are  bold  to  say  it.  You  may  come  to  crave  them.’  Quant  a  moy, 
ma  doulce  amye,je  te  bayse  les  mains. 

You  can  see  that  he  had  been  laughing  at  her  in  the  old 
way,  not  boisterously  this  time,  but  under  the  beard,  in  his 
little  twinkling  eyes  ;  and  that,  in  the  old  way,  she  had  been 
braced  by  his  bravery.  He  had  guessed  —  you  can  see  that 


CH.  VIII 


KING’S  EVIL 


293 


too  —  that  she  had  some  need  of  him,  and  how  necessary  it 
was  that  her  loathing  for  her  husband  should  pass  into  mere 
indifference.  But  he  had  no  notion  at  that  time  how  press¬ 
ing  that  need  was.  Not  she  herself  had  realised  the  horror 
she  had  until  the  night  after  reaching  Dunbar,  when  the 
King,  by  Standen,  had  renewed  certain  proposals,  frustrate 
before  by  his  laches.  It  may  have  been  sudden  panic,  it 
may  have  been  a  trick  of  memory  —  God  knows  what  it 
was;  but  she  had  flooded  with  scarlet,  then  turned  dead 
white,  had  murmured  some  excuse,  and  with  bowed  head 
and  feeble,  expostulating  hands,  had  left  the  room.  She 
did  not  come  back  that  night.  She  had  called  Des-Essars, 
fled  with  him  into  the  turret,  found  an  empty  chamber 
under  the  leads,  had  the  door  locked,  a  great  coffer  jammed 
against  it  —  and  had  stayed  there  so  till  morning.  The 
young  man,  writing  a  word  or  two  upon  it,  says  that  she 
was  almost  rigid  at  first,  in  a  waking  trance ;  and  that  she 
sat  ‘  pinned  to  his  side  ’  while  the  maids  and  valets  hunted 
her  high  and  low.  ‘  I  did  what  I  could,’  he  writes  ;  ‘  talked 
nonsense,  told  old  tales,  sang  saucy  songs,  which  by  that 
time  of  my  life  I  had  been  glad  to  have  forgotten,  and, 
affecting  a  nonchalance  which  I  was  far  from  feeling, 
recovered  her  a  little.  She  began  to  be  curious  whether 
they  would  find  her,  judged  by  the  ear  how  the  scent  lay, 
laughed  to  hear  Mistress  Seton  panting  on  the  stair,  and 
Carwood  screaming  —  “There’s  a  great  rat  in  my  road!  ” 
Presently  she  slept,  with  her  head  on  my  knees  and  my 
jacket  over  her  shoulders.  I  took  her  down  to  bed  before 
morning,  and  in  the  daylight  she  had  partly  recovered 
herself.  She  transacted  business,  ate  a  meal ;  but  I  re¬ 
marked  that  she  trembled  whenever  the  King  entered  the 
room,  and  faltered  when  she  was  obliged  to  reply  to  him  — 
faltered  and  turned  up  her  eyes,  as  fowls  do  when  they  are 
sleepy.  Fortunately  for  her,  he  was  sulky,  and  did  not 
renew  his  advances.’ 

I  suspect  that  she  found  out  —  for  she  was  rigid  in  self¬ 
probing —  that  if  she  allowed  herself  to  abhor  him  for  an 
unspeakable  affront,  she  would  have  to  scorn  herself  even 
more  for  having  given  him  the  means  of  affronting  her. 
Right  punishment :  she  would  admit  that  she  had  deserved 


294 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


it.  She  had  been  the  basest  of  women  (she  would  say) 
when  she  offered  that  which  was  to  her  a  sacrament,  in 
barter  for  mere  political  advantage.  Why,  yes !  she  had 
prepared  to  sell  herself  to  this  wallowing  swine  in  order  to 
escape  her  prison ;  and  if  he  snored  the  bargain  out  of  his 
head  it  was  because  he  was  a  hog,  —  but  then,  O  God !  what 
was  she  ?  So,  from  not  daring  to  think  of  that  night  of 
shame,  she  passed  to  fearing  to  think  of  the  shameful 
recreants  in  it ;  and  as  we  ever  peer  at  what  we  dread,  it 
came  about  that  she  could  think  of  nothing  else,  and  was  in 
torment.  Des-Essars  gives  none  of  this ;  it  was  not  in  his 
power  to  get  at  it ;  but  he  saw,  what  we  can  never  see,  that 
she  suffered  atrociously,  that  her  case  grew  desperate. 
Hear  him.  ‘One  day  I  came  with  a  message  to  her 
chamber  door,  early;  the  door  was  half-open.  I  had  a 
shocking  vision  of  her  abed,  lying  there  in  a  bed  of  torture, 
like  one  stung  ;  on  her  face,  writhing  and  moaning,  tossing 
her  hands  —  short  breath,  tearless  sobbing,  sharp  cries  to 
God ;  while  Mary  Seton  read  aloud  out  of  Saint- Augustin 
by  the  fog-bound  cresset  light.  She  read  on  through  every¬ 
thing —  pausing  only  to  put  our  Mistress  back  into  the 
middle  of  the  bed,  for  fear  lest  she  might  fall  out  and  hurt 
herself.’ 

If  this  is  true  —  and  we  know  that  it  is  —  why,  then,  out 
of  such  waking  delirium,  out  of  anguish  so  dry,  Queen  Mary 
must  have  been  delivered  if  she  were  not  to  die  of  it. 

The  Earl  of  Bothwell  was  not  a  man  of  imagination, 
though  he  had  a  quick  fancy.  He  read  his  Queen  in  this 
state  of  hers  with  interest  at  first,  and  some  amusement,  not 
then  knowing  how  dire  it  was.  He  saw  that  she  would 
turn  white  and  leave  any  room  into  which  King  Darnley 
entered  ;  he  knew  that  she  would  ride  far  to  avoid  him,  and 
sometimes,  indeed,  under  sudden  stress,  would  use  whip 
and  spur  and  fly  from  him  like  a  hunted  thief.  When  he 
found  out  something —  not  very  much,  for  Des-Essars  would 
not  speak  —  of  the  events  of  the  night  in  the  turret,  moved 
by  good-nature,  he  put  himself  in  the  way  to  help  her. 
He  got  more  maids  fetched  from  Edinburgh  —  Fleming  and 
Mary  Sempill  —  and  himself  stayed  with  her  as  long  as  he 


CH.  VIII 


KING’S  EVIL 


295 


dared,  and  longer  than  he  cared.  And  then,  one  day  by 
chance,  he  got  a  full  view  of  her  haunted  mind  —  a  field  of 
broken  lights  indeed!  and  saw  how  far  he  might  travel 
there  if  he  chose,  and  with  what  profit  to  himself. 

He  was  with  her  afoot  on  the  links  behind  the  town _ 

sandy  hillocks  of  dry  bents,  and  a  grey  waste  at  such  a 
season,  abode  of  the  wind  and  the  plovers ;  he  with  her, 
almost  alone.  Des-Essars,  who  walked  behind  them,  had 
strayed  with  the  dogs  after  a  hare ;  the  wind,  blowing  in 
from  the  sea,  brought  up  wisps  and  patches  of  fog  in  which 
the  boy  was  hidden.  Talking  as  she  went,  carelessly,  of 
the  things  of  France,  he  listening  more  or  less,  she  stopped 
of  a  sudden,  choked  a  cry  in  the  throat,  and  caught  at  his 
arm.  *  Look,  look,  look  !  ’  she  said  :  ‘  what  comes  this 
way  ?  ’  He  followed  the  direction  of  her  fixed  eyes,  and 
saw  a  riderless  horse  loom  out  of  the  vapour,  come  on 
doubtingly  at  a  free  trot,  shaking  his  head  and  snuffing 
about  him  as  if  he  partly  believed  in  his  freedom.  It 
shaped  as  a  great  grey  Flemish  horse,  assuredly  one  of  the 
King’s. 

The  Queen  began  to  tremble,  to  mutter  and  moan.  ‘  Oh, 
oh,  the  great  horse  !  Free  —  it’s  free  !  Oh,  if  it  could  be 
so  !  Oh,  my  lord,  oh - I’m  afraid  !  ’ 

‘  It  is  indeed  the  King’s  horse,  madam,’  he  said.  ‘  I  fear 
—  some  misfortune.’ 

But  she  stared  at  him.  4  Misfortune !  ’  she  cried  out. 
‘Oh,  are  you  blind?  Go  and  see  —  go  and  make  sure.  I 
must  be  assured  —  nothing  is  certain  yet.  Run,  my  lord, 
run  fast !  ’ 

He  made  to  obey,  and  instantly  she  clung  to  his  arm  to 
stop  him.  She  was  in  wild  fear. 

‘No  —  no  —  no  —  you  must  not  leave  me  here!  There 
are  voices  in  the  sea-wind  —  too  many  voices.  A  clamour, 
a  clamour !  Those  that  cry  at  me  through  the  door,  those 
that  are  out  on  the  sea  —  a  many,  a  many  !  I  tell  you  I  am 
afraid.’  Her  fear  irritated  her ;  she  stamped  her  foot. 

‘  Do  you  hear  me  ?  I  am  afraid.  You  shall  not  leave  me.’ 

There  was  no  doubt.  She  was  beside  herself  —  looking 
all  about,  her  teeth  chattering,  fingers  griping  his  arm. 

‘Why,  then,  I  will  send  the  lad,  ma’am,’  says  Bothwell. 


2 g6  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  ii 

‘  You  need  have  no  fear  with  me.  I  hear  no  voices  in  the 
wind.’ 

She  looked  at  him  wonderfully.  ‘  Do  you  never  hear 
them  at  night  ?  ’  Then  her  eyes  paled,  and  the  pupils 
dwindled  to  little  specks  of  black.  ‘  Come  with  me,’  she 
said  in  whisper,  ‘  a-tiptoe  ;  come  softly  with  me.  We  must 
find  him  —  we  can  never  be  sure  till  we  see  him  lying. 
There  is  one  way:  you  lift  the  eyelids.  Better  than  a 
mirror  to  the  nose.  Come,  come :  I  must  look  at  him,  to 
be  very  sure.’  She  stared  into  the  white  sky,  and  gave  a 
sudden  gasp,  pointing  outwards  while  her  eyes  searched  his 
face.  ‘  Look  !  ’  she  said  :  ‘  the  birds  over  there.  ^  They  are 
about  him  already.  Come,  we  shall  be  too  late.  She  led 
him  away  in  a  feverish  hurry,  through  bush  and  briar, 
talking  all  the  time.  ‘Blood  on  his  face  —  on  his  mouth 
and  shut  hands.  He  gripped  his  dagger  by  the  blade,  and 
it  bit  to  the  bone.  He  comes  and  cries  at  my  door — all  foul 
from  his  work  —  and  asks  me  let  him  in.  But  I  hold  it 
I  am  very  strong.  He  always  comes  —  but  now!’  She 
laughed  insanely,  and  gave  a  skip  in  the  air.  ‘  O  come,  my 
lord  —  hurry,  hurry  !  ’ 

The  loose  horse  had  trotted  gaily  by  them  as  the 
astonished  Lord  Bothwell  followed  where  he  was  haled. 
Presently,  however,  he  heard  another  sound,  and  pulled 
back  to  listen  to  it.  ‘  Hearken  a  moment,’  says  he.  ‘Yes, 
yes!  I  thought  as  much.  Here  comes  another  horse  — 
galloping  like  a  fiend  —  a  ridden  horse.’ 

She  started,  forced  herself  to  listen,  knew  the  truth. 
‘He  is  hunting!  Take  me  —  hide  me  —  keep  me  safe! 
Bothwell,  keep  him  off  me  !  ’ 

She  knew  not  what  she  said  or  did ;  but  he,  full  of  pity 
now,  drew  her  behind  a  clump  of  whims  and  held  her  with 
his  arm. 

‘  There,  there,  madam,  comfort  yourself,’  he  said. 
*  None  shall  harm  you  that  harm  not  me  first.  How 
shall  you  be  hurt  if  you  are  not  to  be  seen  ?  Trust  your¬ 
self  to  me.’ 

She  shook  in  his  arm  like  a  man  in  an  ague;  uncon¬ 
trollable  fits  of  shaking  possessed  her,  under  which,  as 
they  passed  through  her,  she  shut  her  eyes,  and  with  bent 


CH.  VIII 


KING’S  EVIL 


297 


head  endured  them.  So  much  she  suffered  that,  if  he  had 
not  let  his  wits  go  to  work,  he  would  have  hailed  the  King 
as  he  went  pounding  by.  He  supposed  that  she  had  been 
shocked  mad  by  that  late  business  of  hasty  blood.  Of 
course  he  was  wrong,  but  the  guess  was  enough  to  prevent 
him  following  his  first  purpose,  and  so  killing  her  outright. 

The  King  came  rocking  down  the  brae,  red  and  furious, 
intent  upon  the  truant  horse ;  and  as  he  went,  Bothwell 
made  bold  to  glance  at  the  Queen.  What  he  saw  in  her 
hag-ridden  face  was  curious  enough  to  set  him  thinking 
hard ;  curious,  but  yet,  as  he  saw  it,  unmistakable.  There 
was  vacancy  there,  the  inability  to  reason  which  troubles 
the  mentally  afflicted ;  there  were  despair  and  misery, 
natural  enough  if  the  poor  lady  was  going  mad  —  and  knew 
it.  But  —  oh,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it !  —  there  was  in  the 
drawn  lines  of  her  face  blank,  undisguised  disappointment. 
He  saw  it  all  now.  She  had  believed  him  dead,  her  heart 
had  leaped  ;  and  now  she  had  just  seen  him  alive,  galloping 
his  horse.  Clang  goes  the  cage  door  again  upon  my  lady  ! 
Now,  here  was  a  state  of  things ! 

When  the  King  was  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  swallowed 
in  the  growing  fog,  and  she  a  little  recovered,  and  a  little 
ashamed,  he  began  to  talk  with  her;  and  in  time  she 
listened  to  what  he  had  to  say.  He  spoke  well,  neither 
forgetting  the  respect  due  to  her,  which  before  he  had  been 
prone  to  do,  nor  that  due  to  himself  as  a  man  of  the  world. 
He  did  not  disguise  from  her  that  he  thought  very  lightly 
of  David’s  killing. 

‘  Saucy  servants,  in  my  opinion,’  he  said,  ‘  must  take 
what  they  deserve  if  they  expect  more  than  they  are  worth. 
They  demand  equality — well,  and  when  they  meet  gentle¬ 
men  with  daggers,  they  get  it.’  But  he  hastened  to  add 
that  to  have  killed  the  fellow  before  her  face  must  have 
been  the  act  of  beasts  or  madmen  —  ‘and,  saving  his  re¬ 
spect,  madam,  your  consort  was  one  and  your  Ruthven  the 
other.’ 

To  his  great  surprise  she  then  said  quietly  that  she  was 
of  the  same  mind,  and  not  greatly  afflicted  by  the  deed,  or 
the  manner  of  it  either.  She  had  seen  men  killed  in  France  ; 
queens  should  be  blooded  as  well  as  hounds.  She  also  con- 


298 


THE  QUEEN'S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


sidered  that  Davy  had  been  presumptuous.  He  had  known 
his  aptitudes  too  well.  But  useful  he  had  certainly  been, 
and  she  intended  to  have  another  out  of  the  same  nest  — 
Joseph,  his  brother.  Singular  lady!  she  had  found  time 
to  write  into  Piedmont  for  him. 

‘  Well  then,  madam,’  says  Bothwell,  with  a  shrug,  ‘  all 
this  being  your  true  mind,  I  own  myself  at  a  loss  how  to 
take  your  extreme  alarms.’ 

She  bit  her  lip.  ‘  I  am  better.  Maybe  they  were 
foolish.  Who  knows  ?  I  cannot  tell  you  any  more  than 
this.  I  had  nearly  forgot  that  wicked  deed.  But  there  are 
other  offences  —  women  find  —  which  cannot,  can  never  be 
forgotten.’  She  grew  impatient.  4  Ah,  but  it  is  not  toler¬ 
able  to  discuss  such  things.’ 

Even  then  he  did  not  know  what  she  meant.  She  had 
been  mortally  offended  by  the  King,  and  offended  to  the 
point  of  horror — but  by  something  worse  than  murder  and 
strife  in  the  chamber,  by  something  which  she  could  not 
speak  of  !  What  under  Heaven  had  that  red-faced,  stable¬ 
legged  lad  in  him  which  could  terrify  her  ? 

‘  Madam,’  he  said,  ‘  if  you  cannot  talk  of  it,  you  cannot 
tell  it  me,  and  there  is  an  end.  My  counsel  to  you  is  this : 
put  the  young  lord  and  his  sottishness  out  of  your  royal 
head.  Look  at  him  stoutly  and  aver  that  he  is  naught. 
You  have  shown  that  you  can  face  a  rebel  kingdom; 
face  now  your  rebel  heart.  For  I  say  that  your  heart  is 
a  rebel  against  your  head,  swerving  and  backing  like  a  jade 
that  needs  the  spur.  Ride  your  heart,  madam !  Ply  whip 
to  the  flanks,  bring  it  up  to  the  boggart  in  the  corn.  Thus 
only  your  heart  shall  nose  out  the  empty  truth.  Why, 
good  lack  !  what  is  there  to  credit  all  your  alarm  but  silly 
fed  flesh  and  seething  liquor?  Look  at  him,  judge  him, 
flick  your  fingers  at  him,  and  forget  him.  Madam,  I  speak 
freely.’ 

She  said  faintly  that  he  was  very  right.  She  had 
suffered  much  of  late  in  all  ways :  she  spoke  of  pains  in 
the  side,  in  the  head,  of  fancies  at  night,  etc.  She  owned 
that  she  desired  his  good  opinion  of  her  courage,  and  pro¬ 
mised  she  would  try  to  earn  it.  Looking  tired  and  ill, 
smiling  as  if  she  knew  only  too  well  there  was  no  smiling 


CH.  VIII 


KING’S  EVIL 


299 


matter,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  at  the  entry  of  the 
town.  He  bowed  over  and  kissed  it.  Mildly  she  thanked 
him  and  went  her  ways  with  Des-Essars. 

He  wrote  to  the  countess  soon  after :  — 

Very  strange  matters  chance  here  daily,  of  the  which  I  write 
not  exactly  for  fear  of  misreading.  One  thing  I  plainly  under¬ 
stand,  the  K.  shall  never  more  prosper  here.  While  he  was 
beloved  he  was  something,  and  when  he  was  dreaded  he  was 
much ;  but  now  that  he  comes  and  goes  unnoticed  he  is  nothing 
at  all.  And  so  he  will  remain,  I  suppose,  until  the  lying-in, 
which  will  be  in  June  coming  they  say.  Ill  betide  him  then  if, 
when  she  is  reminded  of  him  in  his  son,  he  play  her  any  trick.  I 
would  not  give  a  snap  of  the  finger  and  thumb  for  his  life.  We 
are  for  Edinburgh  on  Monday  morn,  whence  look  infallibly  for 
my  tidings. 

The  King,  then,  was  nothing  at  all.  Nerved  by  her 
brawny  councillor,  she  had  faced  her  ‘boggart  in  the  corn,’ 
and  in  two  days  time  could  curl  her  fine  lip  to  remember 
him.  That  is  a  proof  that  she  was  sane  at  the  root,  need¬ 
ing  no  more  than  such  bitter  as  his  rough  tongue  could 
give  to  restore  her  tone.  And,  having  ridded  her  fears, 
she  soon  found  that  she  could  rid  her  memory  altogether. 
The  King  went  out  and  in,  as  Bothwell  had  written,  un¬ 
noticed.  He  made  no  more  attempts  to  come  at  her, 
spoke  to  none  but  his  own  company,  felt  that  he  was  in 
disgrace,  and  sulked.  Lord  Bothwell  scoffed  at  him  by 
implication  —  by  every  keen  shaft  from  his  eyes  and  every 
wag  of  his  head;  Lord  Huntly  kept  at  a  distance;  Sir 
James  altered  his  salutation.  On  the  Sunday  before  they 
should  move  back  to  town  they  were  speaking  of  the  rebel 
lords,  whether  they  were  now  in  England  or  yet  on  the 
road ;  and  Bothwell  began  to  cry  up  Ruthven,  his  mad¬ 
ness,  his  knives,  his  friends’  knives.  The  King  got  up  and 
left  the  table.  He  told  Standen  afterwards  that  he  should 
not  go  to  Edinburgh.  Standen  told  Des-Essars,  and  he 
told  the  Queen. 

‘Oh,  but  he  shall,’  she  said  at  once,  consulted  her 
friends,  and  sent  him  a  verbal  message  that  she  should 
need  him  there.  He  felt  this  badly  —  but  obeyed  it. 


300 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


For,  much  against  her  inclination,  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  must  drag  the  chain  which  had  been  forged 
upon  her ;  she  must  keep  the  King  in  her  eye  for  fear  he 
should  work  her  a  mischief.  His  father  Lennox  was  in 
Glasgow,  an  escaped  enemy :  it  would  never  do  for  him  to 
go  thither.  Or  suppose  he  were  to  return  to  England  ! 
No,  no,  she  must  keep  him  in  Edinburgh,  keep  him  cowed, 
and  yet  not  allow  him  to  grow  desperate.  Worse  than 
that,  the  time  was  coming  on  when  she  must  have  him  by 
her  side,  in  the  house,  perhaps  nearer  still.  He  was  now 
‘  the  Queen’s  dearest  Consort,’  but  soon  he  would  be  4  the 
Prince’s  dearest  father  ’  and  a  power  in  the  land.  The 
Earl  of  Bothwell,  consulted,  was  precise  about  that  — 
awkwardly  precise. 

‘  Folk  will  talk,  madam,  about  you  and  him.  He’ll  not 
want  for  a  faction  to  cry,  “  The  King  keeps  aloof !  Well 
he  may,  knowing  what  he  knows.”  Oh,  have  him  with 
you,  ma’am,  as  near  as  may  be.  For  hawks  dinna  pick 
out  hawks’  een,  as  they  say;  and  if  he  owns  to  the  child  — 
why,  he  should  know  his  own.’ 

She  flushed.  ‘  You  speak  too  plainly,  my  lord.’ 

‘  Not  if  I  mean  honestly,  ma’am.’ 

‘  I  hope  you  mean  so,’  said  she,  ‘  but  the  sound  of  your 
phrase  is  otherwise.’ 

‘  I  was  speaking  in  character,  ma’am.  Mark  that.* 

She  was  looking  down  at  her  lap  when  next  she  spoke, 
carelessly  at  her  careless  fingers.  ‘  Whose  child  do  they 
allege  it  ?  ’ 

The  directness  of  the  question  and  indirectness  of  its 
manner  puzzled  him.  He  could  not  tell  whether  to  be 
blunt  or  fine. 

‘  Madam,  I  am  no  scandal-monger,  I  hope,  and  have 
little  pleasure  in  the  grunting  of  hogs  in  a  sty.  But  hogs 
will  grunt,  as  your  Majesty  knows.’ 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  but  said  :  *  It  will  be  better 
that  you  answer  me  in  a  few  words.  One  will  suffice.’ 

He  tried  —  he  began  —  but  could  not  do  it.  ‘Madam,’ 
he  said,  ‘  you  must  answer  for  yourself.  All  I  will  ask  is 
this :  what,  think  you,  drew  the  King  to  the  deed  he  did  ?  ’ 

She  lifted  her  head  and  gave  him  one  long  look. 


CH.  VIII 


KING’S  EVIL 


301 


Rather,  it  seemed  long.  He  knelt  down  quickly  and 
kissed  her  knee. 

He  rose  and  began  to  justify  himself.  ‘You  forced  me 
to  say  it  —  it  may  have  been  my  duty  —  make  it  not  my 
offence.  God  knows  I  needed  no  such  royal  answer  as 
you  have  given  me  — not  I!  I  think  no  evil  of  your 
Majesty,  nor  have  I  ever.’ 

She  flashed  her  eyes  upon  him— not  angrily  by  any 
means.  ‘  Oh,  my  lord,  may  I  be  sure  of  that  ?  Come,  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  seem  to  remember.  There  was  a  day 
when  you  enlarged  yourself  from  my  prison  and  rode,  a 
free  man,  to  Haddington.  What  said  you  of  me  there 
among  your  friends?’ 

He  puzzled  over  this.  ‘I  can  charge  myself  with 
nothing.  Your  Grace  knows  more  of  me  than  I  do.’ 

Did  you  not  speak  in  the  hearing  of  one  Pringle  con¬ 
cerning  me  and  my  uncle  the  Cardinal?  Did  you  give  me 

a  name  then  ?  Come,  come,  my  lord,  be  plain.  Did  you 
not  ?  ’  J 

He  burst  out  laughing.  ‘  The  voice  is  the  voice  of 
Queen  Mary,  but  the  words  are  of  Black  James  Stuart ! 
Oho,  madam,  you  will  hear  finer  tales  than  this  concerning 
me,  if  you  sound  that  thoughtful  man.’ 

She  pressed  him,  but  he  would  neither  deny  nor  affirm. 

‘  I  shall  not  defend  myself,  madam,  before  your  Majesty. 
But  I  will  meet  the  Earl  of  Moray,  and  wager  him  in 
battle,  if  you  give  me  leave :  in  battle  of  one  and  one,  or 
of  a  score,  or  of  ten  score.  Let  him  repeat  his  charge  in 
the  Grassmarket  if  he  dare.’ 

Baffled  here,  she  harped  back  upon  the  child.  She  said 
that  she  needed  to  be  sure  of  his  good  opinion  of  her. 
Then  he  made  her  heart  beat  fast,  for  he  came  and  put  his 
hand  upon  the  back  of  her  chair  and  stood  right  over  her : 
she  could  feel  the  strength  of  his  eyes,  like  beams  from  the 
sun,  driving  down  upon  her. 

‘  Madam,  and  my  sovereign  lady,  as  God  is  my  judge, 
this  is  the  truth.  I  loved  you  once,  and,  at  love’s  bidding, 
staked  all  on  a  great  design.  My  plot  was  unmannerly, 
but  so  is  love ;  you  were  offended  with  me,  as  your  right 
was.  I  loved  you  no  less,  but  honoured  you  the  more, 


302 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


because  of  that.  If  now  I  thought  evil  of  you  —  such  evil 
as  you  suspect  in  me  —  I  would  tell  you  so  for  the  sake 
of  that  love  I  gave  you  before.’ 

She  bowed  her  head  and  thanked  him  humbly ;  did  not 
look  up,  nor  stir  from  her  place  below  him. 

‘  As  meek  as  a  mouse !  ’  —  he  could  not  remember  ever 
to  have  seen  her  so  before.  What  was  in  her  heart  ?  It 
sent  him  away  thoughtful.  Next  day  he  rode  at  her  side 
to  Edinburgh. 

Established  there  more  firmly  than  at  any  time  since 
her  reign  began ;  with  a  council  packed  with  her  friends, 
with  Lord  Huntly  (her  slave)  for  Chancellor ;  with  her 
open  enemies  ruined  and  in  exile,  her  secret  enemies  abject 
at  her  knees,  her  husband  in  disgrace,  and  her  child  near 
its  birth  —  in  this  comfortable  state  of  her  affairs,  the  Earl 
of  Bothwell  suddenly  asked  leave  to  go  into  his  own 
country.  She  was  piqued,  and  could  not  help  showing  it. 

‘You  desire  to  —  you  will  consort  with  —  one  who  loves 
me  little  ?  Well,  my  lord,  well !  How  should  I  hinder 
your  going,  since  I  cannot  quench  your  desire  ?  ’ 

Thinks  he,  ‘  Now,  now,  what  root  of  grievance  is  this, 
sprouting  here  ?  ’  Aloud  he  said,  ‘  Madam,  I  am  content 

—  and  more  than  content  —  to  stay  by  your  Majesty  so 
long  as  you  find  me  of  use.  But  the  time  is  at  hand,  and 
you  have  said  it,  when  you  will  refuse  me  harbourage.’ 

‘Yes,  yes,’  she  said  quickly,  her  face  aflame:  ‘you 
cannot  be  with  me  in  the  castle.’ 

She  had  agreed  to  lie-in  there,  and  had  forbidden 
quarters  to  Lords  Bothwell  and  Huntly  alike.  Do  you 
ask  why  ?  Mary  Seton  might  have  answered  you  in  part 

—  but  scornfully,  since  women  have  no  need  to  ask  such 
things.  They  know  them.  ‘  Lord  Huntly  !  Lord  Huntly  !  ’ 
I  can  hear  her  say  —  a  pretty,  vehement  little  creature  — • 
‘  Lord  Huntly  !  And  he  a  known  lover  of  our  mistress  ? 
How  should  he  be  there  ?  ’  Pass  Lord  Huntly  :  what  of 
Lord  Bothwell?  She  would  shake  her  head.  ‘No,  no,’ 
she  would  say,  ‘  it  could  not  be.  He  is  a  faithful  friend.’ 
Well,  then,  what  of  that  ?  She  would  rise  quickly  and 
walk  to  the  window.  ‘  I  cannot  tell  you,  sir,  why  he  is 


CH.  VIII 


KING’S  EVIL 


303 


not  to  be  there.  But  I  am  very  clear  that  she  would  not 

suffer  it.  Oh,  for  example - impossible!’  You  would 

get  no  more  from  her.  And  what  more  could  you  want? 

But  the  Queen  was  still  frowning  over  his  leave  of 
absence,  and  pinching  her  lip.  Then  she  broke  out,  in 
the  midst  of  her  private  thoughts :  ‘  But  I  cannot  refuse 
you  !  How  can  I  ?  You  having  asked  to  go  — what  is  the 
worth  of  your  staying,  when  your  heart  is -  And  yet 

—  there  is  the  King - ’  She  looked  slily  up.  ‘  My  lord, 

do  you  dare  to  trust  your  pupil  alone  ?  ’ 

His  face  took  a  gay  air.  ‘If  I  am  your  tutor, 

madam - ’ 

‘  Why,’  said  she,  ‘  what  else  can  you  be  ?  My  confessor  ? 
My  cousin  ?  My  brother  ?  What  else  ?  ’ 

He  laughed,  avoiding  her  inquiry.  ‘  To  be  your  brother 
would  be  to  own  kinship  with  my  lord  of  Moray.  A 
dangerous  degree,  ma’am,  for  one  of  the  pair.’ 

‘  I  would  not  have  you  for  my  brother/  she  said 
thoughtfully. 

Responsive  thought  struck  fire  in  his  eyes.  ‘  I  will  ask 
you  this.  Will  your  Grace  receive  me  into  the  castle  ? 
There  I  could  be  of  service  —  maybe.’ 

He  watched  her  intently  now  —  watched  until  he  saw 
the  flag  come  fluttering  down.  She  lowered  her  eyes ;  he 
could  hardly  hear  her  words. 

‘  No,  no.  You  must  not  be  there.  Afterwards  —  come 
soon.’  She  waited  there,  hanging  on  the  last  word ;  then 
rose.  ‘Yes,’  she  said,  ‘it  is  better  that  you  should  go. 
I  will  not - ’  She  spoke  wildly.  ‘Go,  my  lord,  go.’ 

He  knelt  to  her  before  he  obeyed ;  at  the  door  she 
called  him  back.  Quickly  he  returned,  but  she  would  not 
look  at  him. 

‘  I  wish  to  tell  you  —  as  plainly  as  I  can  - - ’  So  she 

began,  speaking  slowly,  feeling  for  her  words.  ‘  The  King 
shall  be  there  with  me  —  in  the  castle.  It  is  painful  to  me 

—  I  conceive  that  you  must  know  it.  But  I  shall  do  as 
you  advise  —  that  scandal  may  be  averted.’  She  strained 
her  arms  down,  stiffening  them,  gave  an  impatient  shake 
of  the  head.  ‘  Heaven  watch  over  me  !  And  you,  my 
lord,  do  you  pray.  Ah,  but  you  use  not  prayer  !  ’  She 


304 


THE  QUEEN’S  OUAIR 


BK.  II 


seemed  conscious  that  she  was  speaking  double  and  he 
not  understanding.  It  made  her  angry  enough  to  look  at 
him.  ‘Well,  well,  why  are  you  here  still  ?  Go  quickly,  I 
say  —  go.’ 

Go  he  did,  a  puzzling,  excited  man. 

Before  he  left  the  city  he  saw  his  brother-in-law,  Lord 
Huntly,  for  a  moment.  ‘  Geordie,’  he  said,  ‘  I’m  for  the 
Border.  I’m  going  to  my  wife.  Are  you  for  yours  or  do 
you  stay  here  ?  ’ 

‘  I  stay.’ 

‘You  may  be  wise.  I  am  going  to  my  wife  —  and  I 
may  be  wise.  God  knows  that  I  know  not.  I  have  not 
seen  her  for  five  months.’ 

Lord  Huntly  had  no  answer.  He  had  not  seen  his 
for  over  a  year.  Presently  Bothwell  makes  another  cast. 

‘  I  took  leave  of  the  Queen  of  late.  She  was  greatly 
wrought  upon  —  distempered.  Sent  me  off  —  called  me 
back  —  sent  me  off  again,  after  some  wild  words.  I  know 
not  what  to  make  of  it.’ 

‘  Help  her  through  it,  God  !  ’  said  Huntly. 

‘  I  think  it  is  a  matter  for  Lucina,’  said  Bothwell,  and 
went  his  road. 

He  travelled  musingly  by  the  hill-ways  into  Liddesdale, 
French  Paris  behind  him.  At  the  top  of  the  pass — Note 
o’  the  Gate,  they  call  it  —  whence  first  you  see  the  brown 
valley  of  the  Liddel,  and  all  the  hills,  quiet  guardians 
about  the  silver  water,  he  reined  up,  and  stood  looking 
over  his  lands. 

‘  Yonder  awaits  me  the  fairest  dark  lady  in  Scotland, 
and  (to  my  mind)  the  fairest  demesne:  the  open  country 
and  the  good  red  deer.  Oh,  the  bonny  holms,  the  green 
knowes,  and  the  ledged  rocks  !  Houp,  man  !  We  are 
free  of  the  scented  chambers  and  all  their  whisperings 
here.’ 

‘It  is  most  certain,  my  lord,’  said  French  Paris,  ‘that 
we  have  left  the  direction  of  those  whisperings  to  Monsieur 
de  Moray.’ 

Lord  Bothwell  was  stung.  ‘  Monsieur  de  Moray ! 
Monsieur  de  Moray  !  Pooh,  rascal,  she  has  her  husband 
with  her  now.  And  that  may  be  even  worse  for  me.’ 


CH.  VIII 


KING’S  EVIL 


305 


French  Paris  looked  demurely  at  the  reins  sliding  in 
his  fingers.  ‘True,  my  lord,  she  has  his  Majesty.  I 
have  remarked  that  women  in  the  Queen’s  condition 
have  extraordinary  inclination  for  their  husbands.  It  is 
reasonable.’ 

‘You  are  a  fool,  Paris,’  said  the  Earl. 

But  when  he  was  at  Hermitage,  his  proud  wife  upon 
his  knee,  my  lord  swore  to  himself  over  and  over  again 
that  he  was  the  happiest  rogue  not  yet  hanged.  And  yet 
he  could  not  but  hear,  beneath  all  his  protestations,  that 
slow,  wounded  voice,  —  ‘  Afterwards  — come  soon.’  Good 
lord  !  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  like  of  that  ? 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  WASHING  OF  HANDS 

To  a  woman’s  affair  flocked  matron  and  maid,  till  the  castle 
seemed  a  hive  of  rock-bees.  Afar  off,  it  was  said,  you 
could  hear  them  humming  within  ;  on  sudden  alarms  out 
they  came  in  a  swarm,  and  ill  fared  physician  or  priest,  or 
discreet,  wide-eared  gentleman  sent  by  his  wife  to  get  a 
piece  of  news.  June  was  in  and  well  in,  skies  were  clean, 
the  twilight  long  in  coming  and  loth  to  go.  Queen  Mary 
lay  idle  by  her  window,  and  watched  the  red  roofs  turn 
purple,  the  hills  grow  black,  the  paling  of  the  light  from 
yellow  to  green,  the  night’s  solemn  gathering-in,  the  star 
shine  clear  in  a  dark-blue  bed  out  thereover  Arthur’s  Seat. 
Her  time  was  short  —  but  one  could  scarcely  tell.  She 
often  felt  that  she  scarcely  cared  to  tell  when  this  crown¬ 
ing  hour  was  to  come. 

Quick-spirited,  sanguine  young  woman,  she  bade  fair  to 
be  weary  of  matron  and  maid  alike,  with  their  everlasting 
talk  of  ‘  the  promise  of  Scotland,’  their  midwifery  stories, 
their  nods  and  winks,  their  portentous  cares  over  what  she 
had  supposed  a  pretty  ordinary  business.  It  was  to  be  seen 
that  she  was  fretting,  and  the  truth  was  that  she  was  in 
much  too  good  health  :  bodily  ease  had  never  been  pleasant 
to  her,  and  never  been  safe.  Her  mind  grew  arrogant  and 
luxurious  at  once,  felt  itself  free  to  range  in  regions  unlaw¬ 
ful  ;  and  so  did  range,  the  lax  flesh  playing  courier.  So 
while  the  humming  and  swarming  of  the  household  bees 
went  on  over  and  about  her  listless  head,  while  she  snapped 
twice  at  the  maids  for  every  once  the  matrons  chafed  her, 

306 


CH.  IX 


THE  WASHING  OF  HANDS 


307 


in  her  mind  she  walked  where  she  fain  would  have  had  her 
body  to  be :  and  then,  sick  of  this  futility,  she  grew  peevish 
and  wished  she  had  never  been  born.  Upon  such  a  crisis, 
intending  for  the  best,  Mary  Beaton  superinduced  a  stout, 
easily-flushed,  gamesome  lady,  her  aunt  Lady  Forbes 
of  Reres. 

Mary  Beaton  was  now  the  wife  of  Mr.  Ogilvy  of  Boyne; 
but  this  aunt  of  hers  was  of  the  father’s  side.  A  Beaton, 
she,  niece  of  the  great  murdered  cardinal,  sister  of  the 
witch-wife  of  Buccleuch,  and  in  these,  no  less  than  in  her 
own  respects,  a  lady  to  be  aware  of.  She  was  in  her  days 
of  silver  and  russet  now,  who  before  may  have  been  of 
dangerous  beauty  —  of  that  quickly-ripe,  drowsy,  blowsy, 
Venetian  sort,  disastrous  to  mankind.  Of  it,  indeed,  the 
clear  ravages  remained,  though  cushioned  deep  in  comfort¬ 
able  flesh ;  traceable  there,  as  in  the  velvety  bosses  of  a 
green  hill  you  mark  the  contours  of  what  was  once  a  citadel 
of  war.  Her  grey  hair  she  now  wore  over  her  ears,  to 
conceal  (as  the  Queen  averred)  members  which  were  so 
well  stuffed  with  gallant  lore  as  to  be  independent  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives.  She  had  a  pretty  mouth  —  a  little  over¬ 
hung —  and  dimpled  chin,  light  green  eyes,  fat,  pleasurable 
hands,  a  merry  voice  and  a  railing  tongue.  Thanks  to  the 
combination,  she  could  be  malicious  without  ceasing  to 
amuse.  To  those  who  know — and  by  this  time  I  hope  they 
are  many  —  it  is  good  evidence  of  her  abilities  and  merits 
alike  that  Mary  Livingstone  could  not  abide  the  woman. 

It  was  not  required  that  she  should.  The  Queen,  too 
languid  to  judge  her,  listened  to  the  savoury  tales  of  this 
Reres  by  the  hour  together,  neither  laughing  nor  chuckling, 
but  for  all  that  fully  content.  So  one  might  watch 
audacious  archery,  and  admire  the  barbed  flights,  even 
when  some  pricked  oneself.  Lady  Reres  was  of  that  kind 
of  woman  who  can  never  speak  of  men  without  marking 
the  gender  of  them.  All  the  persons  on  her  scene  wore 
transparent  draperies ;  to  hear  her  you  would  have  sup¬ 
posed  that  the  one  business  of  man  were  to  pursue  his 
helpmate,  and  of  woman  to  stroke  her  own  beauties.  She 
spared  neither  age  nor  sex  from  her  categories  :  all  must 
be  stuffed  in  somewhere;  nor  did  the  very  throne  exempt 


308 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


the  sitter  from  service.  The  throne  of  Scotland,  for 
instance !  She  made  it  sufficiently  appear  to  Queen  Mary 
that  her  royal  father  had  been  a  mighty  hunter.  She 
knew  the  romantic  origin  of  all  the  by-blows  —  ‘  Cupid’s 
trophies,’  as  she  called  them  (O  my  Lord  of  Moray !)  —  and 
did  not  scruple  to  reveal  them  to  the  ears  of  Lady  Argyll, 
herself  the  daughter  of  Margaret  Erskine,  and  quite  aware 
of  it.  Then  she  must  adventure  Queen  Marie  of  Lorraine 

—  the  one  saint  whose  lamp  had  never  grown  dim  upon 
her  daughter’s  altar — and  hint  that  she  had  been  con¬ 
sciously  fair  and  not  unconsciously  pursued.  ‘  And  I  speak 
as  one  who  should  know,  sweet  madam/  said  this  old 
Reres  ;  ‘  for  the  Cardinal,  fine  man,  was  of  my  own  kindred, 
and  differed  noways  from  the  rest  of  the  men.  I  mind 
very  well  —  ’twas  at  Linlithgow,  where  you  were  born,  my 
Queen — Queen  Marie  sat  by  the  window  on  a  day,  her 
hand  at  her  side,  at  her  foot  a  dropped  rose.  But  oh  ! 
that  flower  was  wan  beside  the  roses  in  her  face.  Your 
Majesty  hath  not  her  hues  —  no,  but  you  favour  the  Stuarts. 
“Dear  sakes,  madam,”  say  I,  “you  have  dropped  your 
rose.”  So  faintly  as  she  smiled,  I  heard  her  sigh,  and 
knew  she  could  not  answer  me  then.  “  Some  one  will  pick 
up  what  I  have  let  fall,”  saith  she  at  last  —  and  then,  behind 
the  curtain,  I  see  a  red  shoe.  I  touched  my  lips  —  they 
were  as  red  as  your  own  in  those  days,  madam  —  and 
slipped  away,  knowing  my  book.  Hey!  but  red  was  the 
hue  of  the  Court  at  that  tide  —  with  the  tall  Cardinal,  and 
the  tall  rosy  Queen,  and  the  dropping,  dropping  roses/ 
The  Queen  let  her  talk.  She  had  a  soft,  wheedling  voice 

—  a  murmurous  accompaniment  to  luxurious  thought. 

No  doubt,  when  the  body  is  unstrung  you  pet  your 
thought,  and  indulge  it  in  its  wanton  ways.  There  is  no 
harm  in  dreaming.  The  Queen  lay  waiting  there,  thrilled 
faintly  with  the  sense  of  what  was  to  come  upon  her,  softly 
served  and  softly  lapped.  And  in  soft  guise  came  into 
ministry  the  figures  of  her  dreams,  inviting,  craving,  implor¬ 
ing,  grieving,  clinging  about  her.  She  communed  again 
with  all  her  lovers,  the  highest  and  the  lowest  —  from 
Charles  of  France,  Most  Christian  King,  a  stormy  boy, 
who  frowned  his  black  brows  upon  her  and  kissed  so  hotly 


CH.  IX 


THE  WASHING  OF  HANDS 


309 


on  that  day  she  saw  him  last,  down  to  slim,  grey-eyed 
Jean-Marie-Baptiste,  whom  by  kindness  she  had  made 
man.  Others  there  were,  stored  in  her  mind,  a  many  and 
a  many  —  and  any  one  of  them  would  have  died  for  her 
once.  What  of  Mr.  Knox,  of  the  great  hands  ?  What  of 
John  Gordon,  fiercest  of  old  Huntly’s  sons?  What  of 
George  Gordon,  romantic,  speechless  lover  at  this  hour  ? 
To  each  his  own  sweetness,  to  each  the  secret  of  his  own 
desire  :  she  savoured  each  by  each  as  she  lay,  turning  and 
snuggling  and  dreaming  among  her  pillows.  And  when 
the  cooing  old  Reres  by  the  bed  spoke  of  Lord  Bothwell, 
she  listened,  sharply  intent ;  and  wondered  if  there  were 
light  enough  left  to  betray  her,  and  hoped  not.  Danger¬ 
ous,  desperate,  hardy  man  !  He  was  a  theme  upon  which 
Lady  Reres  descanted  at  large.  Let  his  draperies  be  as 
they  would,  his  gender  was  never  in  doubt. 

Reres  had  known  James  Bothwell  —  so  she  always  called 
him— for  many  years;  for  although  his  only  numbered 
thirty  yet,  and  she  confessed  to  five-and-forty,  he  had  come 
into  blossom  as  quick  as  a  pear-tree  in  a  mild  Lent :  at 

fifteen  and  a  half  James  Bothwell - !  She  lifted  up  her 

hands  to  end  the  sentence. 

‘  They  say —  under  the  breath  I  speak  it  —  that  of  late 
he  hath  cast  his  eyes  above  him.  Ah,  and  how  high  above 
him,  and  how  saucily,  let  others  tell  your  Majesty.’  Queen 
Mary’s  hot  ears  needed  no  telling.  ‘They  say  it  drove 
my  lord  of  Arran  into  raving  fits.  Fie  then,  and  out 
upon  you,  Bothwell,  if  Majesty  cannot  be  a  hedge  about 
a  lovely  woman  !  But  so  it  hath  ever  been  with  all  that 
disordered  blood  of  Hepburn:  thieves  all,  all  thieving 
greatly.  I  need  not  go  back  far  —  and  yet  they  tell  the 
tale  of  the  first  Hepburn  of  them,  and  of  Queen  Joan, 
widow  of  our  first  James.  What  did  those  two  at  Dunbar 
together  ?  ’  At  Dunbar  —  a  Hepburn  and  a  dead  Queen  of 
Scots  alack  !  and  what  had  done  this  living  Queen  with 
her  Hepburn  there  ? 

‘  A  pest  upon  them  all !  ’  cries  Reres  ;  ‘  for  what  did  the 
son  of  that  Hepburn  with  a  Queen?  And  the  father  of 
our  James  Bothwell,  what  did  he  ?  For  if  James  Both¬ 
well  s  father  loved  not  your  Majesty’s  own  mother,  and 


3io 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


loved  her  not  in  vain  —  why  should  our  man  find  himself 
a  straitened  earl  at  this  day  ?  But  so  it  is,  they  say,  and  so 
is  like  to  be,  that  every  Hepburn  of  Bothwell  dieth  for 
love  of  a  Queen  of  Scots.  Foh,  then!  and  is  our  man  to 
vary  the  tide  of  his  race  ?  Oh,  madam,  I  could  tell  your 
Majesty  some  deal  of  his  prowess  !  Listen  now  :  he  loved 
my  sister  Buccleuch,  and  me  he  loved.  Greedy,  greedy  ! 
Oh,  there’s  a  many  and  many  a  woman  hath  greeted  sore 
for  him  to  come  back.  But  he  never  came,  my  Queen  of 
Honey,  he  never  came !  And  let  not  her,’  she  darkly  said, 
‘that  hath  him  now,  think  to  keep  him.  No,  no,  the 
turtle  hath  mated  too  high.  He  is  like  the  king-eagle 
that  sits  lonely  on  his  rock,  and  fears  not  look  at  the  sun  : 
for  why  ?  he  bideth  the  time  when  he  may  choose  to  fly 
upward.  Did  he  mate  with  my  sister  —  a  Hob  to  her  Jill  ? 
Mated  he  with  me  ?  God  knows  whom  he  will  mate  with 
or  mate  not.  He  has  but  to  ask  and  have,  I  think.’ 

‘  Pull  the  curtain,  pull  the  curtain,’  says  Queen  Mary  ; 
‘  the  light  vexes  my  eyes.’ 

‘  And  stings  your  fair  cheek,  my  Honey-Queen,’  says 
wise  Lady  Reres,  and  gives  her  a  happy  kiss. 

So  it  is  that  a  woman  of  experience,  who  carries  her 
outlay  gallantly,  approves  herself  to  her  junior,  who  wishes 
to  carry  her  own  as  gallantly  as  may  be.  But  Mary 
Livingstone — Mistress  Sempill,  as  they  called  her  now  — 
mother  already  and  hoping  to  be  mother  again,  used  to 
bounce  out  of  the  bedchamber  whenever  Lady  Reres 
entered  it  with  her  James  Bothwell  on  the  tip  of  her  quick 
tongue. 

In  the  drowsy  days  of  mid-June  the  Queen  suffered  and 
bare  a  son.  First  to  know  it  outside  the  castle-hive  was 
brisk  Sir  James  Melvill,  who  had  it  from  Mary  Beaton 
before  they  fired  the  guns  on  the  platform ;  and  that  same 
night,  by  the  soaring  lights  of  the  bonfires,  rode  out  of 
Lothian  to  carry  the  great  news  into  England.  No  man 
saw  Queen  Mary  for  four  days,  though  the  castle  was 
filled  to  overflowing  and  the  Earl  of  Huntly  walked  all 
night  about  the  courtyards,  telling  himself  that  for  the 
sake  of  mother  and  child  the  vile  father  must  be  kept 


CH.  IX 


THE  WASHING  OF  HANDS 


3 1 1 


alive.  The  King  was  lodged  in  the  castle  by  now  ;  and 
one  good  reason  for  Huntly’s  vigil  may  have  been  that 
his  Majesty  and  his  people  had  swamped  the  house-room. 
The  Earls  of  Moray,  Argyll  and  Mar  were  there ;  Atholl 
also  and  Crawfurd  (to  name  no  more)  —  the  two  last  linked 
with  Huntly  against  two  of  the  first,  and  all  alike  watching 
Lord  Moray  for  a  sign.  It  seemed,  now  this  child  was 
come,  no  man  knew  just  what  line  he  should  take.  So 
each  looked  doubtfully  at  his  neighbour,  and  an  eye  of 
each  was  linked  to  Moray’s  eyes  of  mystery.  At  the  end 
of  her  four  days’  grace  the  Queen  sent  for  her  brothers 
first  among  men — the  three  black  Stuarts,  James,  John, 
and  Robert ;  and  two  of  them  obeyed  her. 

In  the  dark,  faint-smelling  chamber,  as  they  knelt  about 
her  bed,  she  put  her  thin  hand  over  the  edge  that  they 
might  kiss  it,  and  seemed  touched  that  they  should  do  it 
with  such  reverence.  They  could  see  her  fixed  eyes  — 
large  now,  and  all  black  —  upon  them,  seeking,  wondering, 
considering  if  their  homage  might  be  real.  As  if  no 
answer  was  to  be  read  out  of  them,  she  sighed  and  turned 
away  her  head.  She  spoke  faintly,  in  the  voice  of  a 
woman  too  tired  to  be  disheartened.  4  You  shall  see 
your  Prince,  my  lords.  Fetch  me  in  the  Prince.’ 

The  child  was  brought  in  upon  a  cushion,  a  mouthing, 
pushing,  red  epitome  of  our  pretensions,  with  a  blind 
pitiful  face.  Lady  Mar  and  Lady  Reres  held  it  between 
them,  passed  it  elaborately  under  the  review  of  the  lords ; 
and  as  these  looked  upon  it  in  the  way  men  use,  as  if 
timid  to  admit  relationship  with  a  thing  so  absurd  —  here 
is  a  James  Stuart  to  be  taken,  and  that  other  left !  —  the 
Queen  watched  them  with  bitter  relish,  turned  to  be  a 
cynic  now,  for  the  emptiness  of  disenchantment  was  upon 
her.  To  win  this  mock-reverence  of  theirs  she  had 
laboured  and  spent !  With  this,  O  God,  she  had  paid  a 
price!  Now  let  all  go  :  for  they  looked  at  her  prize  as  at 
so  much  puling  flesh,  and  had  kissed  her  hand  on  the 
same  valuation.  Pish !  they  would  scheme  and  plot  and 
lie  over  the  son  as  they  had  over  the  mother  —  and  the  only 
honest  fellow  in  all  Scotland  was  Death,  who  had  just 
made  a  fool  of  her !  The  child  began  to  wail  for  its  nurse, 


312 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


and  pricked  her  into  a  dry  heat.  For  it  is  to  be  known 
that  she  could  not  nurse  her  baby.  ‘  Take  him,  take  him, 
good  Reres.  I  cannot  bear  the  noise  he  makes,  nor  can 
ease  him  any.  And  you,  my  lords,  shall  come  again  if 
you  will.  Come  when  the  King  is  by.’  Here,  as  if 
suddenly  urged  by  some  anxiety,  she  raised  herself  in  the 
bed.  They  saw  how  white  she  was,  and  how  fearfully  in 
earnest.  ‘Fail  me  not,  brothers,  in  this.  I  desire  you  to 
be  with  me  when  the  King  is  here.’ 

When  they  had  both  promised,  they  left  her  to  sleep  ; 
but  she  could  get  none  for  fretting  and  tossing  about. 

Mary  Livingstone  said,  How  could  she  sleep  ?  She 
was  ‘  woeful  that  she  could  not  nurse  her  baby.’ 

Hereat  the  Queen  took  her  by  the  arm  and  hurt  her 
by  her  vehemence.  ‘  What  honesty  is  left  in  this  world  but 
Death  ?  ’  she  croaked  in  her  misery.  ‘  When  your  blood- 
brothers  compass  your  downfall,  and  your  husband  is  a 
liar  declared,  and  your  own  breasts  play  churl  to  your 
new-born  child  —  oh,  oh,  oh,  I  would  open  my  arms  to 
bonny  leman  Death  !  ’ 

Mary  Livingstone,  blind  with  tears,  hung  over  her,  but 
could  not  speak.  The  Queen  drove  her  away,  and  had  in 
the  reminiscent,  the  caustic,  the  fertile  Reres. 

At  two  in  the  afternoon  of  a  later  day  a  great  company 
was  admitted ;  and  the  King,  coming  in  last  with  an 
Englishman  of  his  friends,  stood  for  the  first  time  these 
long  weeks  by  the  Queen’s  bed.  She  was  prepared  for 
him,  gave  him  her  hand,  but  flinched  evidently  when  he 
saluted  it.  The  Countess  of  Mar  brought  in  the  Prince, 
having  settled  this  function  of  honour  with  Reres  as  best 
she  knew,  and  handed  it  about  in  the  throng. 

‘  Give  it  to  me,  my  Lady  Mar,’  says  the  Queen  in  that 
dry,  whispering  voice  of  hers.  All  the  spring  seemed  gone 
out  of  her,  so  much  she  dragged  her  words.  The 
moment  she  had  it  in  bed  with  her  it  began  its  feeble 
wailing. 

‘  There,  sir,  there  then !  ’Tis  your  royal  Mother  has 
you  !  ’  says  Lady  Mar ;  and  the  Queen,  bothered  and  sick 
of  the  business  before  she  had  begun  with  it,  grew  deadly 
hot  as  she  held  it,  rocking  it  about.  The  King  gazed 


CH.  IX 


THE  WASHING  OF  HANDS 


3i3 


solemnly  at  his  offspring  :  he  blinked,  but  no  more  foolishly 
than  any  other  man.  The  courtiers  admired,  happily  not 
called  upon  to  speak ;  in  fact,  nobody  spoke  except  the 
infant,  and  Lady  Mar,  who  pleaded  in  whispers.  Nor  did 
she  whisper  in  vain,  for  presently  the  crying  stopped,  the 
Queen  held  up  the  child  in  her  arms  and  searched  vaguely 
the  King’s  face.  I  say,  vaguely,  because  those  who  knew 
and  loved  her  best  could  not  in  the  least  understand  that 
questioning  look,  nor  connect  it  with  the  words  she  spoke. 
She  used  no  form  of  ceremony,  neither  sir’d  nor  my-lorded 
him ;  but  poring  blankly  in  his  face,  ‘  God  hath  given  you 
and  me  a  son,’  she  said. 

The  King  was  observed  to  blush.  ‘  And  I  thank  God 
for  him,  madam,’  was  his  answer,  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  the 
child.  He  achieved  his  honourable  purpose,  though  the 
Queen  drew  back  as  his  face  came  near.  Who  did  not  see 
that  ? 

Again  she  said,  ‘You  have  kissed  your  very  son.’  There 
was  a  silence  upon  all,  and  then  she  added  in  a  voice 
aside  —  ‘  So  much  your  son  that  I  fear  it  will  be  the  worse 
for  him  hereafter.’  Coming  at  such  a  time,  from  such  a 
mouth,  the  words  dropped  upon  that  hushed  assembly  like 
an  Oracle.  No  Scot  of  them  all  durst  say  anything,  nor 
could  the  French  Ambassador  find  phrases  convenient. 
The  King  may  or  may  not  have  heard  her — he  was  slow. 
But  plain  Sir  William  Stanley  in  his  Lancashire  voice 
cried  out,  ‘  God  save  your  Majesties,  and  the  Prince  your 
son  !  ’  She  looked  about  to  find  who  spoke  so  heartily, 
and  they  told  her  the  name  and  station  of  the  man. 
She  observed  him  with  interest,  held  up  the  child  for 
him  to  see. 

‘  Look  upon  him,  sir,  for  whom  you  pray  so  stoutly.  This 
is  the  prince  I  hope  shall  first  unite  two  realms.’ 

‘Why,  madam,’  says  Sir  William,  ‘shall  he  succeed 
before  your  Majesty  and  his  father?’ 

He  meant  well,  but  did  unhappily.  The  Queen  gave 
back  the  child  to  Lady  Mar  before  she  replied. 

Then,  ‘Yes,’  she  said,  ‘I  think  he  shall,  and  for  this 
reason.  Because  his  father  has  broken  my  heart.’ 

Not  a  soul  dared  to  move.  The  King  started  —  as  one 


3i4 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


jerks  in  first  sleep  —  grew  violently  red,  looked  from  face 
to  face,  found  no  friendliness  in  any,  and  broke  out  des¬ 
perately  :  ‘  Is  this  your  promise  ?  Is  this  your  promise  ? 
To  forget  and  forgive  ?  ’ 

She  was  as  hard  as  flint.  4 1  have  forgiven,’  she  said, 
‘  but  I  shall  never  forget.  Would  that  I  could  !  But  what 
if  I  had  died  that  snowy  night?  Or  what  if  Fawdonsyde’s 
pistol  had  shot  my  babe  in  me  ?  ’ 

‘  Madam,’  said  the  King,  4  these  things  are  past.’ 

She  threw  herself  back,  face  to  the  wall.  ‘  Ay,  they 
are  past.  Well,  let  them  go.’  She  shut  her  eyes  reso¬ 
lutely  until  they  were  all  gone  out ;  and  when  that,  which 
seemed  the  only  thing  to  be  done,  was  well  done,  she 
opened  them  again,  with  a  new  and  sharp  outlook  upon 
affairs.  She  sent  one  of  the  women  for  Des-Essars, 
another  for  the  physician. 

To  this  latter,  who  found  her  sitting  up  in  bed  with  very 
bright  eyes,  she  said,  4  Master  Physician,  I  feel  stronger, 
having  done  all  the  disagreeable  duties  which  seemed 
expected  of  me.  I  wish  for  your  consideration  of  this 
matter :  when  can  I  rise  from  this  bed  ?  ’ 

He  gravely  pondered.  4  Madam,  in  these  heats  I  dare 
not  advise  you  to  be  moved.  Nourishment  and  repose 
should  work  wonders  for  your  Majesty,  as  indeed  you 
tell  me  that  they  have.’ 

4  At  least,  they  would  if  I  could  get  them,’  she  replied. 

‘All  Scotland  would  give  herself  to  provide  them, 
madam,  for  your  solace.’ 

*  They  are  the  last  things  I  should  look  for  from  Scot¬ 
land,’  said  the  Queen.  4  Nourishment  and  repose!  I  shall 
leave  my  bed  to-morrow.’ 

4  Madam,’  said  the  doctor,  4 1  have  but  done  my  duty.’ 

4  Ah,  duty  !  ’  she  said.  4  And  have  I  not  done  mine  ? 
Now,  good  sir,  I  intend  my  pleasure.’ 

Dismissing  him,  she  turned  to  Des-Essars,  who  stood 
erect  by  the  door.  4  I  desire  to  wash  my  hands,  Jean- 
Marie.  Bring  basin  and  towel.’ 

As  he  served  her  at  the  bed’s  edge,  she  dipped  and 
rinsed  her  hands  —  carefully,  formally,  smiling  to  herself 
as  at  the  good  performance  of  some  secret  rite.  This 


CH.  IX 


THE  WASHING  OF  HANDS 


315 


might  have  been  lustral  water,  Jordan’s,  or  that  sluggish 
flow  of  Lethe’s.  She  held  up  her  wet  hands  before  the 
lad’s  face.  ‘  Do  you  see  any  speck  ?  ’ 

‘  Oh  no,  madam.’ 

‘Be  very  sure,’  she  said;  ‘look  well  again.  These 
hands,  mark  you,  have  been  in  Scotland  four  years.’  She 
rinsed  again  and  wrung  them  of  drops ;  smelt  them,  and 
seemed  pleased.  ‘  Roses  they  smell  of  now  —  not  Scotland,’ 
she  said.  ‘  So  I  am  free  of  Scotland.’  She  dried  her 
hands  and  sent  him  away  with  the  service  —  ‘  But  come 
back  soon,’  she  said ;  ‘  I  have  more  for  you  to  do.’ 

Des-Essars  returned.  ‘Wait  you  there,’  said  she, 
‘while  I  write  a  letter.’  She  wrote,  pausing  here  and 
there,  looking  wisely  for  a  word  or  two  —  sometimes  at 
the  prim-faced  youth,  as  if  she  could  find  one  there  — 
scoring  out,  underlining,  smiling,  biting  the  pen.  She 
ended  —  did  not  re-read. 

‘  Bring  taper  and  wax.’  She  sealed  her  letter  with  her 
signet  ring,  and  held  it  out.  ‘  Take  this  incontinent  to  my 
lord  of  Bothwell.  At  Hermitage  in  Liddesdale  you  shall 
find  him.  Be  secret  and  sure.  You  have  never  failed  me 
yet,  and  I  trust  you  more  than  most.  I  trusted  you  four 
years  ago,  when  you  were  a  boy :  now  you  are  nearly  a 
man,  and  shall  prove  to  be  fully  one  if  you  do  this  errand 
faithfully.  Ask  for  French  Paris  at  your  first  coming  in  — 
thus  you  will  get  at  my  lord  privily.  Now  go,  remembering 
how  much  I  entrust  you  with  —  my  happiness,  and  hope, 
and  honour.’  He  made  to  leave  her,  but  she  cried,  ‘  Stay. 
You  love  me,  I  think.  Come  nearer  —  come  very  near. 
Nearer,  nearer,  foolish  boy.  What,  are  you  so  timid? 
Now  — stoop  down  and  kiss  me  here.’  She  couched  her 
cheek,  then  offered  it. 

He  flushed  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  and  had  nothing 
to  say ;  but  he  was  never  one  to  refuse  chances.  She  said, 

‘  You  have  kissed  a  Queen.  Now  go,  and  earn  your  wages.’ 
He  marched  from  the  room,  grown  man,  and  took  the  way 
in  half  an  hour. 

At  his  castle  of  Hermitage,  deep  in  the  hills,  the  Earl  of 
Bothwell  frowned  over  his  letter,  and  having  read  it  many 
times,  went  on  frowning  as  he  fingered  it.  ‘  Now,  if  any 


3i  6 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


faith  might  be  given  to  a  princess,’  he  thought  to  himself, 
‘  those  two  should  never  be  together  again  man  and  wife. 
The  pledge  is  here,  the  written  word.’  He  chuckled  low 
in  his  throat,  then  shrugged  like  an  Italian.  ‘  The  word 
of  a  prince,  the  bond  of  a  weathercock !  Let  the  words  go 
for  words  —  but  the  heart  that  devised,  the  head  that  spun, 
the  hand  that  set  them  here  —  ah,  a  man  may  count  on 
them  !  ’  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  far  into  the  sunny  brown  hills.  He  shook  his 
fist  at  the  blue  sky.  4  Oh,  Bastard  of  Scotland,  James  mis¬ 
begotten  of  James  !  Oh,  my  man,  if  these  words  are  true, 
there  shall  come  a  grapple  between  you  and  me  such  as 
the  men  of  the  dales  know  not —  and  a  backthrow  for  one 
of  us,  man  James,  which  shall  not  be  for  me.’  Leaning 
out  of  the  window,  he  roared  into  the  court  for  his  men. 
‘Ho,  Hob  Elliott!  Ho,  Jock  Scott!  Armstrong,  Willy 
Pringle,  Paris,  you  French  thief!  Boot  and  saddle,  you 
dogs  of  war  —  I  take  the  North  road  this  night.’  He  strode 
a  turn  or  more  about  the  room,  shaking  his  letter  in  his 
hand.  ‘  Better  than  a  charter,  better  than  a  sasine,  bond 
above  bonds !  ’ 

But  he  went  to  his  wife’s  bower.  ‘My  heart,’  saith  he, 
‘I  must  leave  thee  this  night  —  I  am  called  to  town.  God 
knoweth  the  end  of  the  adventure.  Read,  my  soul,  read, 
and  then  advise.’ 

She  read  the  French  slowly,  he  behind  her,  his  face 
almost  touching  her  cheek,  prompting  her  with  a  word  or 
two ;  but  so  eager  as  he  was,  he  was  always  in  front,  and 
had  to  come  back  for  her,  mastering  his  impatience.  At  the 
end  she  sat  quietly,  looking  at  her  hands.  His  excitement 
was  not  to  be  borne. 

‘  Well,  my  girl,  well  ?  * 

‘  Go  to  her,  my  lord.’ 

‘  You  say  that !  ’ 

She  replied  calmly,  ‘No,  it  is  she  that  says  it  —  it  is 
veiled  in  these  lines.’ 

He  took  her  face  between  his  hands.  ‘But  it  is  thou 
that  sendest  me  —  hey?  Be  very  sure  now  what  thou  art 
about.  If  I  go,  I  go  to  the  end.  I  stay  never  when  I  ride 
out  o’  nights  until  I  have  the  cattle  in  byre.’ 


CH.  IX 


THE  WASHING  OF  HANDS 


317 


Her  deep  eyes  met  his  without  faltering.  ‘  Let  her  have 
of  you  what  she  will.  I  have  what  I  have.’ 

Now  she  had  made  him  wary.  He  could  not  be  sure 
what  she  was  at  —  unless  it  were  one  thing. 

‘  Dost  thou  send  me,’  he  asked  her,  ‘  to  be  her  bane  ?  art 
thou  so  still  and  steadfast  a  hater  ?  ’ 

‘  I  send  you  not  at  all,’  she  answered.  ‘  It  is  she  that 
calls.  Remember  that  against  the  time  when  you  have 
need  to  remember  it.’ 

He  caught  her  up  and  kissed  her  repeatedly.  ‘  Sit 
thou  still,  Jeannie,  and  watch,’  says  he;  ‘keep  my  house 
and  stuff,  and  have  a  prayer  on  thy  lips  for  me.  Never 
doubt  me,  my  dear.  Doubt  all  the  world  to  come,  but 
doubt  not  me.’ 

She  said,  ‘  I  am  very  sure  of  you  —  both  of  what  you 
will  do,  and  what  you  will  not  do.’ 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  left  her.  She  did  not  come 
out  to  see  him  ride  away. 

Cantering  on  grass  through  the  hot  starry  night,  he 
called  Des-Essars  to  his  side  and  questioned  him  closely 
about  the  letter.  How  did  she  write  it  ?  What  did  she 
say  ?  Who  was  by  ? 

‘  My  lord,’  said  Baptist,  ‘  I  myself  was  by.  No  other  at 
all.  She  bade  me  take  it  straight  to  your  lordship,  surely 
and  secretly.  She  wrote  it  herself  and  sealed  it  with  the 
ring  on  her  forefinger.  But  she  wrote  nothing  until  she 
had  washed  her  hands.’ 

‘Why,  my  lad,’  says  he,  ‘were  her  hands  so  foul?  ’ 

‘  My  lord,  they  were  the  fairest,  whitest  hands  in  the 
world.  But  she  washed  them  many  times,  until,  as  she 
said,  they  smelt  of  roses,  and  not  of  Scotland.’ 

‘  The  plot  thickens,  God  strike  me  !  What  else,  boy  ?  ’ 

‘  Nothing  more,  my  lord,  save  that  she  gave  me  the 
letter,  as  I  have  told  your  lordship,  and  sent  me  directly 
away.’ 


CHAPTER  X 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  DIURNALL  OF  THE  MASTER  OF 

SEMPILL 

That  sandy-haired,  fresh-coloured,  tall  gentleman,  John 
Sempill,  Master  of  Sempill,  received  his  Mary  Livingstone 
on  her  return  from  the  Court  with  more  demonstration 
than  was  held  seemly  in  Scotland ;  but  they  were  his  own 
servants  who  saw  him,  and  he  was  sincerely  glad  to  have 
her  back.  Not  only  the  pattern  housewife,  but  the  orna¬ 
ment  of  his  hearth,  the  most  buxom  of  the  Maries,  the 
highest-headed,  greatest-hearted,  the  ruddiest  and  the 
ripest  —  well  might  he  say,  as  he  fondled  her,  ‘  My  lammie, 
thou  art  a  salve  for  my  sair  een,’  and  even  more  to  the 
same  effect. 

‘By  your  favour,  Master,’  quoth  she,  ‘you  shall  give 
over  your  pawing.  I  am  travel-weary  and  heart-weary, 
and  you  trouble  me.’ 

‘  Heart-weary,  dear  love  !  ’  cried  the  Master.  ‘  And  you 
so  new  back  to  your  bairn  and  your  man  !  ’ 

‘  I  am  full  fain  of  you,  Master,  and  fine  you  know  it. 
And  our  bairn  is  the  pride  of  my  eyes.  But  I  grieve  over 
what  I’ve  left  behind  me ;  my  heart  is  woe  for  her.  And 
indeed,  if  you  must  have  it,  I  am  near  famishing  for  want 
of  bite  and  sup.’ 

‘  Come  away,  woman,  come  away,’  said  the  Master, 
justly  shocked.  ‘There’s  the  best  pasty  on  the  board  that 
ever  you  set  your  bonny  teeth  to,  and  a  brew  of  malt  un¬ 
matched  in  Renfrew.  Or  would  you  have  the  Canary  ? 
Or  happen  the  French  wine  is  to  your  liking  ?  Give  a 

318 


CH.  X 


THE  MASTER  OF  SEMPILL 


3i9 


name  to  it,  wife,  for  it’s  a’  your  ain,  ye  ken.’  He  hovered 
about  her,  anxious  to  serve,  while  she  pulled  at  her  gauntlets. 

*  The  fiend  is  in  the  gloves,  I  think.  There  then,  they’re 
off.  Master,  I’ll  take  a  cup  of  the  red  French  wine. 
Maybe  it  will  put  heart  into  me.’ 

‘Take  your  victual,  take  your  victual,  my  lady,’  says 
the  Master,  ‘I’ll  be  back  just  now.’  He  was  his  own 
cellarer,  prudent  man,  and  was  apt  to  excuse  himself  by 
saying  that  one  lock  was  better  than  two. 

The  wine  brought  back  the  colour  to  her  cheeks  and 
loosened  the  joints  of  her  tongue.  All  he  had  now  to  do 
was  to  listen  to  her  troubles :  and  he  did  listen.  It  is 
likely  that,  had  she  been  less  charged  with  them,  she  had 
been  warier ;  but  she  was  indeed  surcharged.  He  soon 
understood  that  it  was  the  coming  of  the  Earl  of  Bothwell 
that  had  caused  her  return. 

‘  Not  that  I  would  not  have  braved  him  out,  you  must 
know,  Master  —  bristling  boar  though  he  be,  dangerous, 
boastful,  glorious  man.  It  would  take  a  dozen  of  Hepburns 
to  scare  me  from  my  duty.  But  oh,  ’tis  herself  that  scares 
me  now !  So  changed,  so  sore  changed.  You  might  lay 
it  to  witchcraft  and  be  no  fool.’ 

‘’Twill  be  the  lying-in,  I  doubt,’  says  the  sage  Master. 
‘You  mind  how  hardly  my  sister  Menzies  took  her  first. 
Ay,  ’twill  be  that.’ 

Mary  Livingstone  would  not  have  it.  ‘  There  are  many 
that  say  so,  but  I  am  not  one.  No,  no.  I  know  very  well 
where  to  look  for  it.  Witchcraft  it  is,  night-spells.  I 
mind  the  beginning  o’t.  Why,  when  I  first  saw  her,  all 
dim  as  I  was  with  my  tears,  her  heart  went  out  to  me  — 
held  out  to  me  in  her  stretched  hands.  She  took  me  to 
her  sweet  warm  bosom,  and  I  could  have  swooned  for  joy 
of  her,  to  be  there  again.  “  Oh,  Livingstone,  my  dear,  my 
dear !  Come  back  to  me  at  last !  ”  And  so  we  weep  and 
cling  together,  and  all’s  as  it  had  ever  been.  For  you 
know  very  well  we  were  never  long  divided.’ 

‘  Never  long  enough  for  me,  Mary,  in  my  courting 
time.’ 

‘  She  was  expecting  her  wean  from  day  to  day,  and  I 
tell  you  she  longed  for  the  hour.  She  was  aye  sewing  his 


320 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


little  clothes  —  embroidering  them  —  ciphers  and  crowns 
and  the  like.  She  worked  him  his  guiding-strings  with 
her  own  hands,  every  stitch  —  gold  knot-work,  you  never 
saw  better.  And  all  her  talk  was  of  him.’ 

‘  Likely,  likely,’  murmured  the  Master. 

‘  She  never  wavered  but  it  was  to  be  a  prince,  for  all 
that  we  teased  her  —  spoke  of  the  Princess  Mary  that  was 
coming  —  or  should  it  not  be  Princess  Margaret  ?  She 
smiled  in  her  steady  way,  as  she  uses  when  she  feels  wise, 
knowing  what  others  cannot  know.  “  No  other  Mary  in 
Scotland,”  she  said.  “  There  are  five  of  us  now,  and  Scot¬ 
land  can  hold  no  more.  My  Prince  Jamie  must  wed  with 
a  Margaret  if  he  needs  one.”  No,  she  never  doubted,  and 
you  see  she  was  right.  Oh,  she  was  right  and  well  before 
the  magic  got  to  work ! 

‘  To  me  she  used  to  talk,  more  nearly  than  to  the  others. 
Poor  Fleming!  You’ll  have  heard  of  her  sore  disgrace  — 
for  favouring  that  lank  Lethington  of  hers.  She  is  suspect, 
you  must  know,  of  seeking  his  recall,  so  hath  no  privacy 
with  our  mistress.  Beaton  and  Seton  were  never  of  such 
account;  so  ’twas  to  me  she  spoke  her  secrets  —  over  and 
over  in  the  long  still  forenoons,  wondering  and  doubting 
and  hoping,  poor  lamb.  “  Do  you  think  he’ll  lippen  to 
me,  Livingstone?”  she  would  say.  “Did  your  own  child 
laugh  to  see  his  mother  ?  I  think  ’twould  break  my  heart,” 
she  said,  “if  he  greeted  in  my  arms.”  She  intended  to  be 
nurse  to  him  herself :  that  I  will  hold  by  before  the 
Throned  Three  on  Doomsday.  Not  a  night  went  by  but, 
when  I  came  to  her  in  the  morn,  she  bade  me  look,  and 
try,  and  be  sure.  I  told  her  true,  she  could  do  it.  And 
what  hindered  her,  pray  ?  What  drove  away  her  milk  ? 
Eh,  sir,  I  doubt  I  know  too  well. 

‘  It  was  Beaton  brought  in  that  old  quean,  that  liggar- 
lady  of  Bothwell’s,  that  lickorish,  ramping  Reres.  Mother’s 
sister  of  Beaton’s  she  is,  own  sister  to  the  wise  wife  of 
Buccleuch,  with  witchcraft  in  the  marrow  of  her.  What 
made  Beaton  do  it  ?  Let  God  tell  you  if  He  care.  I 
think  the  Lord  God  may  well  have  covered  His  face  to 
hear  her  tales.  Such  a  tainted  history  I  never  listened  to 
— pourntiire  de  France  !  Oh,  Master,  I’ve  heard  the  Count 


CH.  X 


THE  MASTER  OF  SEMPILL 


321 


of  Anjou  and  his  minions,  and  Madame  Marguerite  and  all 
hers  at  their  wicked  talk.  Eve  heard  Bothwell  blaspheme 
high  Heaven  in  three  tongues,  and  had  the  bloat  Italian 
scald  my  ears  with  a  single  word.  But  the  Reres  beats  all. 
Good  guide  us,  where  hath  she  not  made  herself  snug  ? 
Whose  purchase  hath  she  not  been  ?  Man,  I  cannot  tell 
you  the  tales  she  told,  nor  one-quarter  the  shamefulness 
she  dared  to  report.  And  the  soft  lingering  tongue  of  the 
woman !  And  how  she  lets  her  scabrous  words  drop  from 
her  like  butter  from  a  hot  spoon !  My  poor  lamb  was 
weary  of  bed  and  body,  I’ll  allow.  I’ll  own  the  old  limmer 
made  her  laugh;  she  never  could  refuse  a  jest,  as  you 
know,  however  salted  it  might  be.  No:  she  must  listen 
and  must  laugh,  while  I  could  have  stabbed  the  old  speckled 
wife.  But  my  Queen  Mary  kept  her  at  the  bedside ;  and 
there  they  were,  she  and  this  Reres,  for  ever  kuttering  and 
whispering  together.  ’Twas  then,  in  my  belief,  the  cast 
was  made,  and  the  wax  moulded  and  the  spells  set  working. 

‘  For  mark  you  this.  The  pains  came  on  o’  the  Wednes¬ 
day  morn,  in  the  small  grey  hours ;  and  by  nine  o’clock 
the  child  was  born  alive.  It  wailed  from  the  first  —  never 
was  such  a  fretful  bairn ;  and  she  could  hear  him,  and 
grieved  over  it,  and  could  not  find  rest  when  most  she 
needed  it.  And  then  — when  they  put  it  to  her —  she  could 
not  nurse  it.  Oh,  Master,  I  could  have  maimed  my  own 
breast  to  help  her  !  She  tried  —  sore,  sore  she  tried ;  she 
schooled  herself  to  smile,  though  the  sweat  fairly  bathed 
her;  she  crooned  to  it,  sang  her  French,  her  pretty  stam¬ 
mering  Scots;  but  all  to  no  purpose  —  no  purpose  at  all. 
The  child  just  labbered  itself  and  her  —  my  bonny  lamb  — 
and  got  no  meat. 

‘  Master,  it  fairly  broke  her  spirit.  She  did  not  fret,  she 
did  not  lament,  but  lay  just,  and  stared  at  the  wall;  and 
not  a  maid  nor  woman  among  us  could  rouse  her.  The 
old  Reres  tried  her  sculduddery  and  night-house  talk,  but 
did  no  better  than  we  with  our  coaxing  and  prayers.  She 
had  no  heart,  no  care,  no  pride  in  the  world ;  but  just  let 
all  go,  and  thrung  herself  face  to  the  wall. 

‘  The  lords  came  about  her,  and  she  showed  them  their 
prince  :  you  could  see  she  scorned  them  on  their  knees,  and 


322 


BK.  II 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

herself  to  whom  they  knelt.  The  craven  King  came  in 
behind  them,  and  she  bade  him  kiss  his  own  son.  She 
looked  him  over,  with  all  the  dry  rage  withering  her  face  — 
you’ld  have  said  she  had  chalked  herself !  — and  spoke  him 
terrible  words.  “  I  may  forgive,  but  I  shall  never  forget,” 
she  said  :  and  to  an  Englishman  who  was  with  him  —  “  He 
has  broken  my  heart.”  A  King!  He’s  a  spoiled  toy  in 
her  hands ;  and  the  like  is  all  the  glory  of  Scotland  —  a 
thing  of  no  worth  to  her.  What  hath  changed  her  so  but 
witchcraft?  Ah,  what  else  hath  such  a  wicked  virtue? 
Soon  after  this  she  sent  for  Bothwell ;  and  when  he  came 
she  was  up  and  about  —  mad,  mad,  mad  for  her  pastime ; 
drinking  of  pleasure,  you  may  say,  like  a  thirsty  dog,  that 
fairly  bites  the  water.  Oh,  Master,  I  am  sick  at  the  heart 
with  all  I’ve  seen  and  heard  !  ’ 

‘Let  me  comfort  my  Heart  and  Joy!’  said  the  really 
loving  Master,  and  applied  himself  to  the  marital  privilege. 
Extracts  from  his  Diumall ,  with  which  I  have  been 
favoured  by  a  learned  Pen,  shall  follow  here  —  not  without 
their  illustrative  value  in  this  narrative.  I  omit  all  reference 
to  the  redding  of  the  hay,  the  wool  sales  of  each  week, 
statistical  comparisons  of  the  lands  of  Beltrees  with  other 
sheep-ground,  Sandy  Graeme’s  hen,  the  draining  of  Kelpie’s 
Moss,  a  famous  hunting  of  rats  on  Lammas  Day,  and  other 
matters  of  a  domestic  or  fleeting  interest. 

It  is  not  without  pain,  be  it  added,  that  I  allow  the 
Master  to  display  himself  naked,  as  it  were,  and  far  from 
ashamed.  It  will  be  seen  —  I  regret  to  say  it  —  that  he  was 
not  above  trafficking  his  good  wife’s  heart,  or  sending  her 
to  grass — in  pastoral  figure! — when  the  milk  ran  dry. 
Commerce  and  the  Affections !  Well,  he  was  not  alone  in 
Scotland  ;  there  were  belted  Earls  in  the  trade  with  him  — 
canny  chafferers  in  the  market-place,  or  (in  Knox’s  phrase) 
Flies  at  the  Honeypot.  He  was  no  better  than  his  neigh¬ 
bours  ;  and  you  will  hear  the  conclusion  of  their  whole 
matter,  from  a  shrewd  observer,  at  the  end  of  this  book. 

The  first  date  in  the  Diumall  of  any  moment  to  us  is  — 

July  the  22.  —  Yester-een  my  dear  wife  Mary  Livingstone,  blessed 
be  God,  returned  to  her  home.  Being  comforted  and  stayed,  she 


CH.  X 


THE  MASTER  OF  SEMPILL 


323 


had  much  to  rehearse  of  Court  doings.  Great  tales  :  Forbes  of 
Reres’  lady,  a  very  gamester ;  the  Earl  of  Both.,  and  others. 

Harsh  entreaty  of  the  K - before  many  witnesses.  Mem.  Not 

to  forget  own  adva?itage  in  such  news ,  nor  the  Earl  of  Bedford) 
and  Mr.  C(ecil).1 

July  the  24.  —  I  wrote  out  my  proffer  fair  for  the  Earl  of  Bed¬ 
ford).  John  Leng  rode  with  it,  a  sad  [discreet]  person.  Wool 
sales  this  week  .  .  .  Sandy  Graeme :  havers  anent  his  hen.  .  .  . 
M(ary)  L(ivingstone)  easier  in  mind,  haler  in  body.  Spake  freely 

of  the  Court.  The  Q - sent  a  French  youth  for  the  Earl  of 

Both.,  and  when  he  came  saw  him  alone  in  her  chamber.  This 
would  be  great  news  for  Engl(and),  but  and  if  they  would  pay  my 
price.  Mem.  To  be  stiff ,  not  to  abate.  AEquam  memento  rebus  in 
arduis  servaf’e  mentem. 

July  the  27. —  .  .  .  M.  L(ivingstone)  saith  that  her  mate 
Fl(eming)  would  give  all  lawful  things  to  have  back  the 
Sec(retary),  even  to  her  allegia?ice  as  a  subject ;  so  intemperate  is 
the  passion  of  love  in  women.  Saith  that  the  Earl  of  Both. 

desires  the  K - to  recall  Mr.  A(rchibald)  D(ouglas)  in  order 

that  he  may  betray  my  Lo.  of  M(oray)  to  the  Q - .  Maybe 

the  K - would  do  it,  if  he  had  enough  credit  with  her.  The 

K - hates  my  lord  of  Both,  as  mortally  as  ever  he  did  the  late 

Italian,  but  not  with  any  more  reason  ;  at  least  M.  L(ivingstone) 
will  not  admit  any.  Pressed  her,  but  as  yet  fruitlessly.  She  is 
clear  that  there  will  be  open  strife  between  the  Earls  of  Both,  and 
Mo(ray) :  but  the  darker  man  hath  a  sure  hold  on  himself  and 
his  friends.  Mem.  To  write  all  this  fairly  to-morrow  in  the  new 
Spanish  cipher.  Mem.  2.  She  saith  that  the  Earl  of  H(untly)  is 

now  Chanciellof)  and  a  declared  lover  of  the  Q - -.  Harmless, 

because  the  Q - hath  little  to  give  but  scorn  to  them  that  openly 

love  her. 

August  the  5c  —  -  Letter  from  my  lord  of  Bed(ford).  His  gross 
English  manners.  He  asks  roundly  what  price  is  demanded. 
This  is  shameful  dealing  —  greatly  offended.  John  Leng  saw  my 
lord  personally  in  Berw(ick),  and  was  asked  to  devise  secret  means 

to  speak  with  me.  Most  certain  that  he  hath  writ  to  the  Q - 

of  Eng(land).  I  shall  tell  him  nothmg  as  yet,  and  7vrite  but  round 

1  The  Earl  of  Bedford  was  English  Commissioner  at  Berwick,  a  ready 
purchaser  from  scandal-mongers.  Mr.  C.  is,  of  course,  the  famous  English 
Secretary. 


324 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


about.  .  .  .  News  this  day  that  the  Q - hath  gone  to  Alloa; 

but  mark  in  what  manner.  The  K - was  invited  ;  and  offered 

himself  to  ride  with  her.  Refused.  Whereupon  he  set  out  alone, 

only  his  English  with  him ;  and  the  Q - embarked  with  the 

lord  of  Both,  in  a  little  ship  from  Newhaven.  Our  informant 
saith  not  who  accompanied  them,  save  that  they  were  famous 
robbers  and  pirates.  Suspect  Ormiston  and  Hay  of  Tala,  known 
to  me  for  desperate  men.  M(ary)  S(eton)  went  along  with  her. 
Lady  Re(res)  took  the  Pr(ince).  Mem.  M.  Livings  tone)  should 
go  to  Alloa ,  but  it  likes  her  not  to  leave  her  child.  Her  shape  too. 

.  .  .  Mem.  2.  To  write ,  very  shortly  and  finally ,  into  Eng(land ). 

August  the  7.  —  News  this  day  from  M.  Fl(eming).  Sir  James 

Mel(vill)  gave  the  K - a  cocker  spaniel  of  his  own  rearing,  and 

the  K - boasting  of  this  (for  they  are  rare  who  show  him  any 

kindness  in  these  days),  it  came  to  the  Q - ’s  ears.  Fl(eming) 

writeth  that  she  rated  Sir  James  sharply  for  this  in  the  gallery  at 
Alloa,  saying,  ‘  I  cannot  trust  one  that  loves  them  that  I  love  not.’ 
Sir  James  all  pothered  to  reply  ;  rare  for  him.  She  flung  away 
before  the  words  were  ready,  and  took  my  lord  of  Both(well’s) 
arm.  .  .  . 

The  Earl  of  Mor(ton)  writeth  me  from  Northumberland  with  a 
fat  buck  from  Chillingham.  Hopeth  I  will  stand  his  friend  for 
the  sake  of  my  father,  whom  (saith  he)  he  entirely  loves.  His 
heart  is  woe  for  Scotland,  and  any  news  which  may  help  him 
thither  he  will  be  thankful  of.  Mem.  To  write  him  civilly  my 
thanks ,  and  tell  him  something,  but  not  near  all.  Etiough  to  let 
him  see  that  I  know  more.  .  .  . 

Sandy  Graeme  very  resolute  upon  the  hen  ;  spake  insolently  to 
me  this  day.  He  threatens  to  pursue.  .  .  . 

August  the  15.  — The  K - ,  we  hear,  flew  into  a  great  passion 

of  late,  and  threatened  to  have  the  life  out  of  my  Lord  of  Mor(ay) 
—  but  not  in  my  lord’s  hearing.  He  is  vexed  to  death  that  the 

Q - consorts  with  those  two  earls,  his  chief  enemies  (as  he 

thinks):  I  mean  Both,  and  Mor(ay).  The  Q - reported  his 

threat  to  her  brother  ;  and  now  the  K - is  gone  away,  supposed 

to  Dunfermline ;  but  he  kept  it  very  secret.  The  Q -  is  to 

hunt  the  deer  in  Meggatdale,  we  learn.  I  have  at  last  prevailed 
upon  M.  L(ivingstone)  to  seek  the  Court.  She  goes,  but  not 
willingly.  In  my  letter  of  this  day  to  Eng(land)  I  plainly  said 

that  the  intelligence  I  had  was  worthy  the  Q - of  Eng(land’s) 

study.  ‘  Let  her  write  soon,’  I  said,  ‘  or - ’  and  so  left  it.  Quos 


CH.  X 


THE  MASTER  OF  SEMPILL 


325 


ego  .  .  .  /  a  powerful  construction,  aposiopesis  hight.  Mem.  To 
see  that  John  Leng  renders  just  accounts  of  his  spending  o?i  my 
business. 

August  the  17.  —  My  dear  wife  set  out  this  day  for  the  Court 
at  Stirling.  Grievous  charges  of  travel  cheerfully  borne  by  me. 
She  hath  promised  to  write  fully.  Recommended  her  to  have 
circumspect  dealing  with  my  lord  of  Bothw.,  to  be  complaisant 
without  laxity  of  principle.  ’Tis  plain  courtesy  to  salute  the 
Rising  Sun,  though  savouring  of  idolatry  if  carried  to  wicked 
lengths.  She  high-headed  as  ever.  .  .  . 

A  letter  from  the  Earl  of  Mor(ton),  which  she  desired  to  read 
with  me  before  she  departed,  wondering  that  he  should  honour 
me.  Lucky  that  the  bay  horse  would  not  stand.  .  .  .  He  writeth 
plainly  that  he  desires  my  service  to  win  him  home  from  his  exile  : 
asketh  me  guiding  lights,  how  the  land  lies ,  etc.  Promises  much, 
but  more  to  be  regarded  is  his  power  to  do  harm.  Of  all  lords 
in  this  realm  he  hath  the  longest  and  deepest  memory.  But  whom 
can  he  hate  of  mine  ?  Whom  of  any  other  body’s  but  of  One , 
and  that  one  hated  sorest  of  all  men  ?  Very  rich  also  is  he,  and 
covetous  to  have  more.  Mem.  To  sleep  upon  the  letter  I  shall 
write  him  before  returning  his  messenger.  He  saith  that  A. 
D(ouglas)  is  full  of  business  of  all  sorts.  I  fear,  a  shameful 
dealer. 

August  the  23.  —  Letter  from  my  wife,  the  first  she  hath  writ ; 

full  of  juicy  meat.  The  Q -  took  the  K -  into  favour 

again  and  suffered  his  company  in  Meggatdale.  She  fears  what 
he  may  do  against  her  if  he  is  alone,  or  with  his  father.  The 
lords  of  Bothw.,  Mor(ay),  and  Ma(r)  present  there  ;  and  M.  S(eton) 
and  a  few  more.  Cramalt  would  not  hold  near  so  many.  Some 
lay  at  Henderland,  some  with  Scott  of  Tushielaw.  Scott  of  Har¬ 
den  offered  and  was  refused  —  supposed  for  fear  of  the  Douglas 
house  by-north  of  him.  Afterwards  they  went  to  Traq(uair).  The 

K - /being  disguised  in  drink,  held  monstrous  open  talk  of  the 

Q - there,  calling  her  a  brood  mare  of  his,  and  other  such 

filthy  boasting.  Sharply  rebuked  by  my  lord  Both.,  he  had  no 
reply  to  make.  Thus  it  is  with  him,  I  see.  The  least  favour 
shown,  it  flieth  to  his  head.  At  heart  he  is  a  very  craven.  He  is 
a  rogue  in  grain.  .  .  . 

News  that  Ker  of  Cessford  hath  slain  the  Abbot  of  Kelso. 
Met  on  the  bridge,  each  with  a  company,  and  had  words  ;  from 
words  fell  to  blows.  Tu  ne  cede  malis ,  sed  contra  audentior  ito. 


326 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


True  :  but  how  if  life  be  threatened  ?  Is  it  not  wiser  to  bend  to  the 
gale  ?  And  where  doth  this  Evil  One  lie,  and  how  to  be  discerned 
by  simple  man  ?  Alas  !  the  times  are  lawless  !  Mem.  John  Leng 
not  home  from  Ber(wick).  He  may  have  with  him  that  which 
would  make  him  worth  the  robbery.  To  e?iquire  for  him  at 
the  post. 

.  .  .  Sandy  Graeme  :  his  hen  a  rankling  thorn,  whereof,  it 
seems,  I  must  die  daily.  .  .  . 


August  the  2 8.  —  I  learn  that  M.  Fl(eming)  hatn  won  her  suit. 
The  Earl  of  Ath(oll)  wrought  for  her,  and  my  lord  of  Mor(ay) 
did  not  gainsay.  Therefore  Mr.  S(ecretary)  cometh  back.  The 

Q - ,  it  is  said,  pleaded  with  my  lord  of  Bothw.  to  do  the  man 

no  harm  —  very  77ieekly,  as  a  wife  with  her  husband.  So  it  was 
done,  and  he  received  at  Sir  W.  Betts’  house  in  Stirling,  after 

dinner.  Present,  the  Q - ,  Lady  Ma(r),  Earls  of  Ath(oll), 

Mor(ay),  and  Bothw.  Leth(ington)  went  down  on  his  two  knees, 
they  say,  wept,  kissed  hands.  Then,  when  he  was  on  his  feet 

again,  the  Q - took  him  by  the  one  hand  and  gave  her  other 

to  the  lords  in  turn.  My  lord  of  Bothw.  could  not  refuse  her. 
Leth(ington)  as  proud  as  a  cock,  saith  my  dear  wife,  who  saw  him 
afterwards  at  the  coucher  by  Fl(eming’s)  side.  I  suppose  she  will 
have  him  now.  He  is  restored  to  all  his  offices  and  is  sent  away 

to  Edinburgh,  whither  the  Q - must  go  soon  to  oversee  her 

revenues.  She  will  lodge  in  the  Chequer  House,  I  hear.  JVow, 
why  doth  she  so  ?  They  establish  the  Pr(ince)  at  Stirling  :  Lady 
Re(res)  to  be  Mistress  of  his  household,  an  evil  choice.  My  wife 
hateth  her  so  sore  she  will  not  write  her  name,  lest,  as  she  saith, 
the  pen  should  stink.  Scandalous  doings  at  Stirling  abound. 

The  Q - in  a  short  kirtle,  loose  hair,  dancing  about  the  Cross 

with  young  men  and  maids :  not  possible  to  be  restrained  in 
anything  she  is  conceited  of.  Mem.  To  consider  closely  about 
the  Chequer  House.  I  mind  that  one  Master  Chalmers,  a 
philosophic  doubter  of  mysteries,  is  neighbour  unto  it.  A  friend 
of  my  lord  of  Bothw.  in  old  times.  They  say,  his  paedagogue. 
Sed  qucere  .  .  . 

John  Leng  returned  Monday  last.  I  fear  little  to  be  done  with 
Engl(and).  Mr.  C(ecil),  most  indurate,  crafty  man,  must  needs 
*  see  the  goods  before  he  can  appraise  them.’  A  likely  profit  I 
Mem.  To  consider  of  the  Earl  of  Moiipori),  if  he  k7ioweth  of 
Leth{ingto7i )  in  7iew  favour  l  A  good  stroke  for  him,  well  worth 
some  outlay.  But  the  charge  of  a  messe7iger  for  such  a  thing  l  .  .  . 


CH.  X 


THE  MASTER  OF  SEMPILL 


327 


September  the  24.  —  Strong  matter  from  my  wife  —  the  strongest 

—  writ  from  Edinburgh.  There  came  in  a  letter  from  the  K - ’s 

father,  my  lord  of  Len(nox),  long  a  stranger  to  the  Court  (and 

with  good  reason  of  his  own),  which  put  the  Q -  in  a  flutter. 

She  was  taken  ill  and  kept  her  bed.  My  wife  saw  her.  This 
lord,  it  seems,  wrote  to  her  Majesty  that  he  could  no  longer 

answer  for  the  mind  of  the  K - his  son  ;  that  it  was  not  in  his 

power  to  stay  the  K - from  a  voyage  abroad.  Much  more  ;  but 

this  the  first.  The  Q - wept  and  tossed  herself  about.  Note 

this  well :  the  Earl  of  Bothw.  was  at  Hermitage  in  Liddesdale. 

But  of  this,  and  its  wild  results,  I  prefer  my  own  relation. 
No  more  as  yet  of  the  Master. 


CHAPTER  XI 


ARMIDA  DOUBTFUL  IN  THE  GARDEN 

To  the  Chequer  House  at  Edinburgh  belonged  a  pleasant 
garden  of  yew  alleys,  grass  walks,  nut-trees,  and  bowers 
cut  out  of  box.  You  could  pace  the  round  of  it  by  the 
limiting  wall,  keeping  on  turf  all  the  way,  and  see  the 
sky-line  broken  by  the  red  gables  and  spires  of  the  little 
clean  city,  being  nevertheless  within  boskage  so  generous 
that  no  man’s  window  could  spy  upon  you.  Thus  it  was 
that  orderly  Mr.  David  Chalmers,  in  his  decent  furred  robe 
and  skull-cap,  was  able  to  tread  his  own  plot,  his  hands 
coupled  behind  his  back,  and  to  meditate  upon  Philosophy, 
Gnomic  Poetry,  and  Moral  Emblems,  undisturbed  by  the 
wafts  of  song,  rustling  of  maids’  farthingales,  flying  feet  of 
pages,  or  sound  of  kisses  refused  or  snatched,  which  those 
neighbour  green  recesses  witnessed  and  kept  to  themselves. 
In  the  Chequer  Garden,  this  mellow  end  of  September, 
the  Court  took  solace  while  the  state  revenues  were  under 
review,  the  Queen’s  custom  being  to  work  in  the  garden- 
room,  a  long  covered  loggia  edging  the  slopes  of  grass, 
from  nine  to  eleven  in  the  forenoon,  then  to  walk  for  an 
hour,  and  then  to  dine.  Holyrood  was  wide,  Holyrood 
was  near,  Holyrood  stood  empty :  this  was  a  whim  of  hers 
—  no  more. 

Great  days  were  these  for  Mr.  Secretary  Lethington :  to 
feel  the  sun  of  royal  favour  genially  warm  upon  his  back 
once  more  ;  to  seek  (and  surely  find)  assurance  of  good 
fortune  in  the  brown  eyes  of  the  sweetest,  most  modest, 
gentlest-hearted  lady  in  Scotland.  Did  he  not  owe  every- 

328 


CH.  XI 


ARMIDA  DOUBTFUL 


329 


thing  to  Mary  Fleming  ?  And  was  she  not  a  sweet 
creditor?  And  next  to  her  he  stood  indebted  to  the 
weather.  The  man  was  sensitive  to  climate,  and,  like  all 
sensitive  men,  loved  autumn  best.  ‘  This  slope  sun,  which 
will  neither  scorch  nor  refuse  his  clemency,  dearest  lady,’ 
he  said  ;  ‘  these  milky  skies,  which  never  seem  to  lose  the 
freshness  of  dawn  ;  the  very  gentle  death  —  most  merciful ! 
—  which  each  Day  suffers;  the  balm  of  Night’s  dipped 
fingers  shed  upon  our  brows  :  are  not  these  things  an 
augury  (O  my  true  love !)  of  even  life  for  you  and  me  ? 
Even  life,  a  peaceful  ending  of  our  days,  with  the  angry 
solstice  turned,  the  dry  heat,  the  bared  wrath  of  the  sun 
far  from  us!  Indeed,  indeed,  I  do  believe  it.’  Mary 
Fleming,  looking  steadfastly  into  the  pale  sky,  would  be 
too  sure  of  herself  to  feel  abashed  by  his  fervour.  ‘And 
I,  sir,’  she  would  answer,  ‘  pray  for  it  daily.’ 

Mr.  Secretary,  at  such  times  as  these,  felt  purified, 
ennobled,  a  clean  man.  Working  with  the  Queen  through 
mornings  of  golden  mist  and  veiled  heat,  he  did  his  very 
best  in  her  service,  and  laboured  to  respond  to  all  her 
moods  with  that  alacrity,  clear  sight,  and  good-humour 
which  he  saw  very  well  his  present  state  required.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who,  like  beasts  of  chase,  take 
colour  from  their  surroundings.  If  you  stroke  your 
dormouse  his  coat  will  answer ;  he  will  burnish  to  a  foxy 
brightness  under  the  hand.  And  so  with  Mr.  Secretary. 
His  lady-love  was  kind,  his  sovereign  trusted  him  again  : 
he  shone  under  such  favour,  dared  to  be  in  charity  with  all 
men,  and  was  most  worthy  of  trust.  He  thought  little  of 
bygone  stresses,  of  the  late  months  when  he  had  lurked, 
gnawing  his  cheek,  in  the  hills  of  the  west ;  it  was  im¬ 
possible  for  the  like  of  him  to  believe  that  he  had  ever 
been  otherwise  than  now  he  was.  He  fancied  himself  a 
book  opened  at  a  clean  page,  and  never  turned  back  to 
regard  earlier  chapters,  blotted  and  ugly.  Forward,  rather, 
looked  he  —  upon  many  fair  folios  of  untouched  vellum. 

‘  Upon  these  we  will  print  in  golden  types,  my  heart,  the 
gestes  of  the  twin-flight  to  the  stars  of  William  Maitland  of 
Lethington  and  Mary  Fleming,  his  spouse  :  deux  cors ,  wig 
ccer  !  ’  And  she,  loving  soul,  believed  the  man. 


330 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


The  Queen,  since  that  summer’s  day  when,  with  ritual, 
she  had  washed  her  hands  in  rose-water,  had  known  many 
moods.  Some  were  of  dangerous  sweetness,  as  of  treading 
a  brink  hand  in  hand ;  some  of  full  joy  in  air  and  weather, 
as  when  Lord  Bothwell  and  his  men  steered  her  across  the 
dancing  sea,  and  the  little  ship,  plunging  in  blue  waters, 
tossed  up  the  spray  to  kiss  her  cheeks,  or  sting  unmannerly 
her  happy  eyes.  There  had  been  days  also  of  high  revelry 
at  Stirling — dancings,  hawkings,  romping  games,  disguises; 
days  of  bravado,  where  Memory  was  dared  to  do  her 
worst.  All  of  these,  as  Mary  Livingstone  told  her  hus¬ 
band,  with  Lord  Bothwell  at  her  side  and  the  King  out 
of  mind.  Some  days  she  had  had  of  doubtful  questioning, 
of  heart-probing,  drawing-back  ;  a  sense  (to  be  nursed)  of 
nothing  yet  lost,  of  all  being  yet  well ;  and  others  —  but 
then  she  had  been  quite  alone  —  when,  upon  her  knees, 
with  bent-down  head  and  hands  crossed  over  the  breast, 
she  had  whispered  to  herself  the  words  of  fate :  ‘  Behold 
one  stronger  than  I,  who,  coming,  shall  overshadow  me. 
Take  me,  lord,  take  me,  take  me,  such  as  I  am.’  After 
such  times  as  these  she  would  walk  among  her  women 
with  a  rapt,  pure  face,  her  soul  sitting  in  her  eyes,  or 
half-risen,  quivering  there,  trembling  in  strength,  sensing 
the  air,  beating,  ready  to  fly.  Then,  as  they  looked  at  her 
wondering,  she  would  sit  with  them  and  talk  gently,  in  a 
low  kind  voice,  about  their  affairs  ;  and  Mary  Livingstone, 
who  knew  her  at  her  best  when  she  was  quick  and  master¬ 
ful,  feared  most  for  her  then  ;  and  Mary  Fleming,  who  had 
but  one  thought  in  her  heart,  took  courage  —  and  at  some 
such  time  pleaded  for,  and  won  back,  her  banished 
lover. 

So  it  was  with  her  during  all  that  summer  and  early 
autumn,  while  the  Master  of  Sempill  (healthy-faced  man) 
was  filling  his  Diurnal l >  and  doing  his  best  to  fill  his  pocket, 
by  emptying  his  wife  of  confidences  and  betraying  her 
afterwards.  But  when  she  came  back  from  Stirling, 
enriched  in  divers  ways,  she  had  to  find  that  the  graceless 
King  had  not  lost  his  power  of  the  spur.  By  degrees  and 
degrees  dark  rumours  gathered  about  her,  of  which  he  was 
the  nucleus.  She  heard  of  his  quarrelling  at  Dunfermline, 


CH.  XI 


ARMIDA  DOUBTFUL 


33i 


of  a  night-fray  at  Cameron  Brig  in  which  he  was  suspected 
of  a  share ;  of  his  man  Standen  with  a  wounded  head,  and 
the  King  swearing  he  would  burn  the  doer  of  it  out  of 
house  and  jacket.  Now,  who  had  wounded  Standen’s 
head?  Nobody  could  tell  her. 

Then  there  were  threats  sent  about  town  and  country 
by  craped  messengers  :  ‘  The  Earl  of  Moray  should  beware 
how  he  rides  abroad  ’ ;  or  ‘  Let  the  Lord  of  Bothwell  look 
to  the  inmates  of  his  house’  —  and  so  forth.  Worse  than 
these  were  the  hints  thrown  out  to  Du  Croc,  the  French 
Ambassador  —  hints  which  pointed  at  the  safety  of  the 
prince  her  son,  and  at  the  King  as  the  author  of  them. 
Flying  words  had  been  caught  in  galleries  and  corridors; 
somebody  saw  the  white  face  of  Forrest,  his  chamber-child, 
frozen  by  terror  into  silence.  They  had  him  in  among 
them,  and  twisted  his  arm  :  he  would  not  deny,  he  would 
not  affirm,  but  wept  copiously  and  moaned  for  his  mother 
in  Winchester.  Mysteries  and  mischiefs  were  all  about 
her ;  and  everything  she  could  gather  insisted  on  one  fact 
—  that  the  King  intended  action  of  his  own  oversea  or  in 
England  —  she  could  not  tell  which. 

Loathing  the  task  as  much  as  the  taskmaster,  she  looked 
her  affairs  in  the  face.  For  one  thing,  they  gave  her  back 
a  distorted  image  of  her  own  face.  She  had  washed  her 
hands,  she  had  been  happy,  thought  herself  free,  —  why, 
why,  what  a  purblind  fool!  She  had  been  playing  the 
May  Day  queen,  like  any  chimney-sweeper’s  wench,  in  a 
torn  petticoat.  A  rent  panoply  to  cover  her,  a  mantle- 
royal  full  of  old  clouts !  The  discovery  threw  her  into 
despair:  ‘Here  am  I,  Mary  of  France  and  Scotland,  a 
crowned  woman  —  bankrupt,  at  the  mercy  of  a  sot  to  whom 
I  lent  my  honour  twice!’  Under  the  bite  and  rankle  of 
this  thought,  grown  fearfully  eager,  she  looked  about  all 
ways  for  escape.  Divorce  !  No,  no,  that  would  bastardise 
her  son.  The  strong  hand,  then  !  Let  her  lay  hands  upon 
the  traitor  to  her  throne  and  bed.  There  was  ample  proof 
against  him  ;  the  Riccio  plot  had  been  enough  by  itself  — 
but  what  stayed  her  was  the  question,  whose  hands  should 
she  set  at  him  ?  Why,  who  was  there  in  all  Scotland  at 
this  hour  who  would  show  him  any  mercy,  once  he  had 


332 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


him?  She  could  not  answer  that;  there  was  nobody.  No. 
She  stood  —  she  was  sure  of  it  —  between  the  King  and  his 
murder.  ‘  But  for  me,’  she  said  bitterly,  ‘  but  for  me,  whom 
he  has  dipped  in  shame,  he  is  a  dead  man.’  For  a  long 
time  she  stood  pondering  this,  a  bleak  smile  on  her  lips, 
and  one  finger  touching  her  breast. 

So  might  she  remain  standing ;  but  she  could  not  have 
him  slain.  Not  though  he  had  sought  to  betray  her, 
spurned  her  worth,  made  her  a  mock  ;  not  though  he  would 
steal  her  child,  tamper  with  her  enemies,  sell  her  for  a 
price.  All  this  was  true,  and  more.  She  grew  scarlet  to 
admit  to  herself  that  more  was  true.  She  was  his  wedded 
wife,  at  his  beck  and  call:  and  now  she  loved  a  Man ;  and 
love  (as  always)  made  her  pure  virgin.  The  shame  of  the 
truth  flooded  her  with  colour.  —  But  no  !  She  stood  between 
the  King  and  his  murderers.  If  he  persisted  in  his  mis¬ 
deeds,  she  had  but  to  stand  aside  and  they  would  kill  him. 
Well,  she  could  not  stand  aside ;  therefore  she  must  coax 
him  back  to  decency  —  by  the  arts  of  women. 

Hateful  necessity  !  And  yet  if  you  had  seen  her  at  her 
window  as  she  faced  it,  looking  askance  at  the  green  sky, 
you  would  have  thought  her  just  a  love-sick  girl  spying  for 
her  lover :  for  that  was  her  wont,  to  smile,  and  peer,  and 
turn  her  pretty  head  ;  pick  with  her  fingers  at  the  pleats  of 
her  gown,  and  be  most  winning  when  at  the  verge  of  loss. 
And  even  when  she  had  decided  upon  bargaining  with  the 
man  she  abhorred,  she  did  not  abhor  the  act.  It  would  be 
a  delicate  exercise  of  the  wits  —  most  delicate.  For  observe 
this  well,  you  who  desire  to  know  her :  although  she  stood 
between  the  man  and  his  murder,  ivliile  she  stood  there 
she  was  absolutely  at  his  mercy.  He  could  do  what  he 
chose  with  her.  Bargaining !  He  could  drive  the  most 
terrible  bargain.  If  she  decided  that  he  must  not  be  killed, 
she  must  needs  deal  tenderly  with  him,  and  fib  and  cheat 
to  save  him.  For  she  knew  very  well  that  whatever  com¬ 
punction  she  had,  he  would  have  none.  In  a  word,  she 
must  prepare  to  save  him  alive,  and  pay  him  dearly  for  the 
hateful  privilege. 

Very  well.  These  conclusions  worked  out,  she  deliber¬ 
ately  sent  word  that  she  would  see  him,  and  he  came  to 


CH.  XI 


ARMIDA  DOUBTFUL 


333 


her  (as  she  had  foreseen)  in  his  worst  mood  —  the  hectoring 
mood  which  knew  her  extremity  and  built  upon  it. 

He  had  grown  blotched,  fatter  in  the  face.  His  lower 
lip  hung  down  ;  there  were  creases  underneath  his  angry 
eyes.  Excess  of  all  sorts,  but  mostly  of  liquor,  was  re¬ 
sponsible  for  the  thickening  of  what  had  never  been  fine, 
and  made  him  his  own  parody.  He  still  held  up  his  head, 
still  straddled  his  legs  and  stuck  out  his  elbows ;  he  still 
had  the  arrogant  way  with  him,  and  still  appeared  a  fool 
when  he  was  most  in  danger  of  becoming  a  man.  He 
knew  that  his  mere  neighbourhood  made  her  sick,  and 
what  reason  she  had  —  cheapened  by  him  as  she  had  been, 
held  for  a  thing  of  nought,  driven  to  feel  herself  vile. 
Knowing  all  this,  and  resenting  in  her  her  knowledge  of 
his  degradation,  he  was  blusterously  sulky;  but  knowing 
further  that  she  had  sent  for  him  because  she  was  afraid  of 
what  he  might  do  against  her,  he  was  ready  to  bully  her. 
If  there  is  one  baser  than  he  who  takes  heart  to  do  wrong 
from  his  wife’s  tenderness,  it  is,  I  suppose,  the  man  who 
grows  rich  upon  her  dishonour.  There  is  mighty  little 
to  choose. 

After  a  constrained  greeting  and  uncomfortable  pause, 
she  began  the  struggle.  Directly  she  touched  upon  the 
rumours,  whose  flying  ends  she  had  caught,  he  flamed  out, 
wagging  his  finger  at  her  as  if  she  had  been  taken  red- 
handed  in  some  misdeed.  Ah,  if  she  considered  that 
he  could  be  taken  up  and  cast  aside,  lifted,  carried  about 
like  a  girl’s  plaything,  it  was  a  thing  his  honour  could  not 
brook.  Let  her  reflect  upon  that.  He  knew  very  well 
what  his  own  position  was  —  how  near  he  stood  to  the  two 
thrones,  how  his  child’s  birth  made  his  title  stronger.  He 
had  had  to  think  for  himself  what  he  should  do — with  his 
friends,  since  those  who  should  naturally  be  about  him 
chose  to  keep  away,  or  could  not  dare  be  near  him.  He 
had  plans,  thoughts,  projects;  had  not  made  up  his  mind  : 
but  let  her  take  notice  that  he  was  about  it.  It  was  not  to 
be  thought  that  a  prince  of  any  spirit  could  suffer  as  he 
suffered  now. 

‘  Ah,  sir,’  she  said  here,  putting  up  a  hand,  ‘  and  think 


334  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  ii 

you  not  whether  I  have  suffered,  or  whether  I  suffer 
now  ?  ’ 

He  glared  at  her. 

‘You  have  friends,  madam,  a  sufficiency  —  ah,  a  re¬ 
dundancy,  in  whose  commerce  I  cannot  see  you  engage 
without  suffering.  You  keep  them  from  me  —  perhaps 
wisely.  There  is  my  lord  of  Moray :  with  him  I  might 
have  a  reckoning.  But  no!  You  hide  him  in  your  gown/ 

‘  How  availed  my  gown  to  David  ?  ’  She  was  stung 
into  this. 

He  squared  his  shoulders.  ‘The  man  paid  dearly  for 
what  he  had.  He  should  have  counted  the  cost.  So 
should  others  count.  Let  my  lord  of  Bothwell  figure  out 
his  bill.’ 

‘No  more  of  that,  my  lord,’  she  cried  in  a  rage.  ‘You 
little  know  what  my  gown  hides,  if  not  that  it  shelters  your¬ 
self.  Do  you  know,  sir,  from  what  I  am  screening  you  ?  ’ 

‘You  screen  me,  madam!  You!  But  I  cannot  suffer 
it.  It  is  to  abase  me.  I  cannot  suffer  it.  But  it’s  all  of  a 
piece  —  I  am  shortened  every  way.  My  friends  are  warned 
off  me — my  father  a  suspect — my  means  of  living  straitened 
—  I  have  no  money,  no  credit.  I,  the  King-Consort,  the 
father  of  the  Prince !  Oh,  fie,  madam,  this  is  a  scandal 
and  crying  shame.  Where  are  my  rights  —  where  is  one 
of  them  ?  Where  is  my  right  to  be  by  your  side  ?  Where 
are  my  rights  of  a  husband  ?  ’ 

‘  They  are  where  you  put  them  —  and  as  you  have  made 
them.’ 

He  began  to  storm ;  but  as  she  met  every  blast  with  the 
same  words,  he  took  another  course.  ‘  A  truce,’  he  said, 
‘  madam,  to  your  taunts.  These  may  be  my  last  words  to 
you,  or  the  first  of  many  happier  speeches.  The  past  is 
past  and  over.  I  have  admitted  the  excesses  of  my  youth 
and  temper;  you  have  condoned  them,  or  so  professed. 
Now,  madam,  I  say  this:  You  have  sent  for  me  —  here  I 
am.  If  you  suffer  me,  I  stay,  and  use  you  as  a  loving 
man  his  wife.  But  if  you  will  not,  I  go ;  and  maybe  you 
see  me  not  again.’ 

She  fairly  cowered  at  the  choice.  She  covered  her  ears. 
‘Ah,  no,  no!  Ah,  but  that  is  not  possible!’  Why,  was 


CH.  XI 


ARMIDA  DOUBTFUL 


335 


she  to  break  her  written  promise,  make  foul  again  her 
washen  hands  ?  She  sat  astare,  beaten  down  and  dumb  ; 
and  the  words  of  her  vow  came  up,  as  it  were,  fiery  out  of 
the  floor,  and  smote  her  in  the  face  like  a  hot  breath. 

_  But  his  courage  rose  at  the  glimpse  of  so  much  power  in 
his  hands.  Not  possible,  said  she.  Ah,  but  he  said  it  was 
essential.  He  looked  at  her,  white  and  extended  there;  he 
felt  and  exulted  in  his  strength.  And  then  it  came  surging 
into  his  mind  that  she  must  be  his  price  to  stay,  and  that 
either  to  get  her  again  or  to  lose  her  he  would  drown 
Scotland  in  blood. 

There  was  a  wild-beating  pause,  in  the  which  she  sat, 
catching  at  the  edge  of  the  coffer,  her  face  turned  to  the 
window.  He  could  see  her  strained  throat,  her  short-rising 
breast,  and  knew  that  he  could  prevail.  For  once  in  his 
foolish  life  he  took  the  straight  road  to  what  he  craved ;  for 
he  shook  his  hair  back,  strode  directly  to  her,  took  her  up 
and  caught  her  round  the  arms.  So  she  was  all  a  prisoner. 
‘Aha,  my  wood-bird,  aha  !  Now,  now  I  have  you  in  a  net. 
Not  again  do  you  escape.’  He  began  to  kiss  her  face; 
there  was  no  escape  indeed.  Abashed,  overwhelmed,  half- 
swooning,  she  gave  up  ;  and  so  made  her  bargain.  To 
save  him  from  murder  she  murdered  her  own  honour.  So 
she  would  put  it  to  herself.  But  let  us,  for  our  part, 
record  it  in  her  honour. 

If  you  will  reason  out  his  nature  —  which  is  that  of  the 
fed  mule  —  you  will  find  his  behaviour  next  day  in  the 
Council  of  a  piece  with  all  the  rest.  Having  been  made 
master  by  her  nobility,  he  supposed  himself  master  by  the 
grace  of  God  given  to  man.  When  he  marched  into  the 
Council  Chamber  and  took  her  proffered  hand,  his  pride 
swelled  up  into  his  eyes,  and  made  him  see  thickly.  Ho  ! 
now  for  the  manly  part.  Here,  in  the  midst  of  his  enemies 

before  this  black  Moray,  this  dark-smiling  Huntly,  this 
lean  thief  Lethington  —  here,  too,  he  would  play  the  man. 

Knowing  him  pledged  to  her,  the  Queen  was  gentle. 

‘  I  beseech  you,  my  lord,’  she  said,  ‘if  you  have  any  grief 
against  me  —  as  now  I  think  you  have  not  —  or  any  cause 
which  moves  you  to  quit  this  realm  (which  I  cannot  suppose), 


336 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


declare  it  before  these  lords.  If  I  have  denied  you  any 
right,  either  of  access  to  the  prince  our  son,  or  any  other 
right,  pray  you  rehearse  it  now.’ 

He  would  not  speak  out.  He  pursed  his  lips,  frowned, 
raised  his  eyebrows,  tapped  his  heel  on  the  floor.  He  said 
that  he  must  be  advised.  He  did  not  see  any  of  his  friends 
here,  with  whom  he  must  consult.  There  were  many 
things  to  consider,  many  calls  upon  him  —  from  here,  from 
there,  from  elsewhere.  He  could  not  speak  hastily,  he 
said,  or  give  pledges. 

Blankly  dismayed,  she  began  :  ‘  But,  my  good  lord,  your 

promise  to  me - ’  really  forgetting  for  that  moment 

what  his  promises  were  worth.  There,  however,  she 
stopped  —  the  words  seemed  to  choke  her. 

Lethington  rose  and  addressed  him,  speaking  in  French, 
and  good  French.  This  was  a  courtesy  to  the  Queen,  one 
of  those  trifling,  terrible  things  which  cost  all  Scotland 
dear.  For  the  King  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and 
there  was  no  hiding  blushes  upon  that  blond  face.  He 
tried  to  answer  in  English ;  but  a  look  of  comical  dismay 
in  Lethington  warned  him  that  he  had  blundered  the 
sense.  He  broke  off  short  —  furious,  hot  all  over,  blind 
with  mortification,  and  mad. 

‘You  speak  too  much  French  for  me,  Mr.  Secretary. 
My  Scots,  I  doubt,  would  not  be  to  your  liking,  either  of 
phrase  or  deed.’  His  lip  shook  —  he  was  nearly  sobbing. 
‘  Madam,  ’  he  cried  out,  ‘  madam,  adieu.  You  will  not  see 
my  face  for  many  days.’  He  lifted  that  hot,  passionate, 
boy’s  face.  ‘  Gentlemen,  adieu.’ 

Turning  on  his  heel  he  walked  directly  from  the  room 
and  pulled-to  the  door  after  him.  The  Queen  turned  faint 
and  had  to  be  helped.  They  fetched  in  women  to  see  to 
her ;  and  the  Council  broke  up,  with  a  common  intelligence 
passed  silently  from  man  to  man. 

Mary  Livingstone,  half  the  night  through,  heard  her 
miserable  wail.  ‘Thrice  a  traitor,  who  has  taught  treachery 
to  me!  Thrice  a  traitor  —  and  myself  a  lying  woman!’ 
She  heard  her  talking  to  herself  —  pattering  the  words  like 
a  mad-woman.  ‘I  must  doit  —  I  must  do  it  —  no  sleep 
for  me  until  I  do  it.  All,  all,  all  —  nothing  hid.  Things  shall 


CH.  XI 


ARMIDA  DOUBTFUL 


337 


go  as  they  must.  But  he  will  never  believe  in  me  again  — 
and  oh  !  he  will  be  right.’ 

The  very  next  day  she  sent  for  the  Earl  of  Bothwell, 
who  was  at  Hermitage ;  and,  when  it  was  time,  awaited  him 
in  that  shady  garden  of  the  Chequer  House —  she  alone  in 
the  mirk  of  evening.  Whenas  she  heard  his  quick  tread 
upon  the  grass  she  shivered  a  little  and  drew  her  hood 
close  about  her  face;  so  that  all  he  could  see  — and  that 
darkly  — was  her  tall  figure,  the  thin  white  wrist  and  the 
hand  holding  the  hood  about  her  chin.  Prepared  for  any 
flight  of  her  mind,  grown  so  much  the  less  ceremonious  as 
he  was  the  more  familiar,  he  saluted  her  with  exaggerated 
courtliness ;  the  plumes  of  his  hat  brushed  the  grass  as  he 
swept  them  round  him.  She  did  not  move  or  speak.  He 
looked  for  her  eyes,  but  could  not  see  them. 

‘  Madam,  I  am  here.  Always,  in  all  places,  at  the 
service  of  my  Sovereign.’ 

‘  Hush  !  ’  she  said  :  ‘not  so  loud.  I  have  to  speak  with 
you  upon  an  urgent  affair.  I  can  hardly  bring  myself  to 
do  it — and  yet  —  I  must.’ 

‘  Madam,  I  fear  that  you  suffer.  Why  should  you 
speak  ? ’ 

‘  Because  I  must.  You  called  me  your  Sovereign.’ 

‘And  so,  madam,  you  are,  and  shall  be.’ 

‘  That  is  why  I  choose  to  speak.’  She  took  a  long  deep 
breath.  ‘The  King  has  been  here,’  she  said;  ‘has  been 
here  and  is  gone.’ 

He  replied  nothing,  but  watched  her  swaying  outline. 
There  would  be  more  to  come. 

‘  I  had  reason  to  fear  what  he  might  contrive  against  my 
peace  —  against  my  crown,  and  my  son.  Many  things  I 
feared.  He  came  here  because  I  sent  for  him.  And 
I  saw  him.’ 

No  help  came  from  the  watcher.  Still  he  could  not  see 
her  face,  hard  as  he  might  look  for  it.  She  drove  herself 
to  her  work. 

‘  He  required  of  me  certain  assurances,  otherwise,  he 
said,  he  would  leave  the  kingdom.  I  dared  not  allow  him 
to  depart,  for  I  knew  that  he  would  work  against  me  in 
England  or  oversea.  Moreover,  leaving  me,  his  life  would 


338 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


be  in  instant  danger.  He  did  not  know  that ;  therefore 
what  he  proposed  was  dangerous  to  himself  and  to  me. 
Do  you  understand  ?  I  feared  that  he  would  steal  my  son 
and  take  him  to  England.’ 

Bothwell  said,  ‘  I  understand  your  fears.’ 

‘Therefore,’  said  she,  ‘  I  urged  him  to  remain.  This  he 
promised  to  do  ’  —  it  was  fine  to  see  how  her  voice  grew 
clear  to  the  attack  —  ‘  if  I  would  yield  him  that  which  I 
had  purposed  never  to  give  him  again.  Do  you  understand 
me  now  ?  ’  She  almost  wailed  the  question. 

He  hastened  to  help  her.  ‘  Yes,  yes,  madam.  I  beg 
you  to  say  no  more.’ 

But  she  threw  back  her  hood,  and  showed  him  her  tense 
white  face.  ‘I  shall  say  all.  No  man  shall  hinder  me. 
He  had  once  betrayed  me  and  held  me  up  to  the  scorn  of 
all  women,  and  I  promised  you  it  should  never  be  again. 
Yet  it  was — the  realm,  my  son,  were  in  danger — and — oh, 
sir,  he  has  betrayed  me  now  beyond  repair !  He  has  had 
all  of  me,  and  now  is  gone  I  know  not  where  —  proud  of 
his  lies,  laughing  at  my  folly.’  A  terrible  shuddering  beset 
her  —  terrible  to  hear. 

‘  Oh,  madam,’  said  Lord  Bothwell,  ‘  let  him  laugh  while 
he  can.  What  else  hath  a  fool  but  his  laughter  ?  ’ 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  wide,  and  he  drew  nearer. 

‘  And  for  me,  Bothwell  ?  What  is  left  for  me  ?  ’ 

‘  Madam,’  he  said  earnestly,  ‘all  is  left.  All  which  that 
blasphemer  was  not  fit  to  give,  since  he  was  not  fit  to 
receive.  Worship  is  left  you,  service  of  true  men.’ 

She  grew  very  serious.  He  could  see  her  eyes  now ; 
all  black. 

‘Not  from  you,  Bothwell.  Never  more  from  you,  since 
I  have  lied.’ 

He  took  a  step  forward.  ‘  More  from  me,  madam  (if 
you  care  to  have  it),  than  perhaps  is  fitting  from  a  subject; 
and  yet  less  than  perhaps  may  be  reasonable  from  a  man.’ 

‘No,  no,’  —  she  shook  her  head,  —  ‘I  have  lied.  Not 
from  you  now.’ 

He  laughed  aloud.  ‘  Madam,  beseech  you  see  what  I 
see.  A  noble  lady,  justly  enraged,  who  yet  can  stoop  to 
comfort  her  subject  —  who  can  humble  herself  to  prove  her 


CH.  XI 


ARMIDA  DOUBTFUL 


339 


kindness.  Is  that  not  worshipful  ?  Is  not  that  service¬ 
worthy  ?  Oh,  most  glorious  humility !  Oh,  proudest 
pride  of  all !  That  Queen  Mary  should  make  confession 
to  James  Hepburn!  Why,  Heaven  above  us,  madam,  for 
what  do  you  take  me:  a  block  of  stone  —  a  wooden  stub  ? 
Madam,  Mistress,  Queen  —  I  am  beaten  to  your  feet  —  I  am 

water - ’  He  heard  her  sob,  saw  that  she  had  covered 

her  face  with  her  hands :  he  ran  towards  her.  God  of 
Gods,  what  was  this  ?  ‘  Have  I  offended  your  Majesty  ? 

Am  I  so  unhappy  ?  ’ 

She  shook  her  head.  ‘No,  no,  no!  I  cannot  talk  — 
but  I  am  not  wretched.  I  am  happy,  I  think  —  comforted.’ 

He  considered  her.  He  considered  intently,  every 
muscle  at  a  stretch.  He  bit  his  moustache,  pressing  it 
into  his  teeth  with  his  fingers  —  moved  forward  —  stopped, 
like  a  hawk  poised  in  mid-air  :  he  nodded  his  head  savagely, 
came  up  to  her,  and  with  gentle  firmness  took  her  by  the 
wrists,  drew  her  hands  from  her  face.  ‘  Look  now  at  me,’ 
he  said. 

She  did  not  struggle  to  be  free,  but  kept  her  face  averted, 
strongly  bent  downward. 

‘  Look  you  at  me.’ 

She  shook  her  head.  He  felt  her  tears  fall  hot  on  his 
hands. 

‘  But  now,’  he  said,  ‘you  must  do  as  I  bid  you.’ 

Slowly  she  lifted  then  her  head  and  faced  him,  looking 
up.  He  saw  the  glittering  tears;  an  honest  tenderness 
gave  honesty  to  his  words.  ‘  My  heart !  ’  he  said,  ‘  my 
heart !  ’  and  kissed  her  where  she  stood. 

Then  he  turned  and  left  her  alone ;  went  by  her  into  the 
thicket  and  climbed  the  wall  into  the  neighbouring  garden. 
For  a  long  time  she  stayed,  with  her  two  hands  clasped  at 
her  neck,  where  his  had  put  them  —  for  a  long  time,  won¬ 
dering  and  trembling  and  blushing  in  the  dark. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Scotchmen’s  business 

When  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  took  off  his  boots  that  same 
night,  he  said,  as  he  threw  them  to  his  man  Paris,  ‘  In  the 
morning  we  go  to  business.’ 

‘  Ha,  in  a  good  hour!  ’  says  Paris,  a  boot  in  each  hand. 
4  And  to  what  business  will  your  lordship  be  pleased  to  go  ?  ’ 

‘Man’s  business,  you  fool,’  says  the  Earl;  ‘carving  and 
clearing  business  ;  road-making  business.’ 

Paris  swung  a  boot.  ‘  I  consider  that  there  is  no 
gentleman  in  this  deplorable  country  so  apt  for  that 
business,’  he  said.  ‘  Do  you  ask  me  why  ?  I  will  tell 
your  lordship  very  willingly.  It  is  because  there  is  no 
other  gentleman  in  this  country  at  all.’ 

‘  Apt  or  not,’  says  Lord  Bothwell,  scratching  in  his 
beard,  ‘  it  is  myself  who  will  do  it.’  He  stared  at  the  floor, 
laughed,  caught  the  word  on  his  lips  and  kept  it  suspended 
while  he  considered.  Then  he  added,  ‘  And  I  signed  the 
contract,  and  sealed  it,  but  an  hour  ago.’  He  threw  himself 
naked  on  his  bed,  and  Paris  covered  him  with  his  blankets. 

‘  Happy  dreams  to  your  lordship,  of  the  contract !  ’ 

‘  Go  to  the  devil,’  says  my  lord  :  ‘  I’m  asleep.’  And  by 
the  next  moment  he  was  snoring. 

Paris  sat  upon  the  floor,  with  a  guttering  candle  beside 
him,  and  made  notches  on  a  tally-stick.  He  told  them 
over  on  his  fingers  and  got  them  pat  before  he  lay  down. 

In  the  morning  he  sat  upon  the  edge  of  his  master’s  bed 
— a  familiarity  which  had  long  been  allowed  him — produced 
his  tally,  and  enlarged  upon  it. 

340 


CH.  XII 


SCOTCHMEN’S  BUSINESS 


34i 


‘  Master,’  he  said,  ‘  for  your  purpose  these  persons  are 
the  best,  as  I  shall  shortly  rehearse  to  you.  I  have  chosen 
each  and  every  for  some  quality  which  is  pre-eminently 
useful,  in  which  I  believe  him  to  be  singular.  The  first 
is  Monsieur  Ker  of  Fawdonsyde,  who,  it  is  true,  is  at  the 
moment  in  disgrace  for  his  part  in  the  Italian’s  affair. 
That  can  be  got  over,  I  think  ;  and  if  so,  well  so.  He  has 
the  strongest  wrist  in  this  kingdom,  next  to  your  lordship’s, 
and  will  do  for  a  spare  string  to  our  bow :  for  I  take  it 
yourself  will  be  our  first  —  not  likely  to  fail,  I  grant;  but 
one  must  always  be  prepared  in  these  cases  for  a  sudden 
jerk  aside.  Monsieur  de  Fawdonsyde  may  be  trusted  to 
stop  that.  They  tell  me  also  of  him  that  he  can  see  in 
the  dark,  and  I  can  well  believe  it  —  a  yellow-eyed  man  ! 
Nothing  could  be  more  useful  to  us ;  for  somebody  is  sure 
to  blow  the  lights  out,  and  in  the  ensuing  scramble  the 
wrong  man  might  be  hurt,  and  some  happy  household 
plunged  into  grief.  Next,  I  certainly  think  that  you 
should  have  home  Monsieur  Archibald.  He  —  if  he  do 
no  more  —  will  be  a  comfortable  stalking-horse.  He  is 
kinsman  —  he  was  greatly  beloved  by  our  man  in  the  old 
days ;  and  could  make  himself  loved  again,  for  he  has  a 
supple  mind.  (Not  so,  however,  his  cousin,  Monsieur  de 
Morton.  He  is  too  stiff  a  hater  for  our  purpose,  and  could 
not  conceal  it  even  if  he  would.)  Now,  I  will  tell  you  one 
other  reason  in  favour  of  Monsieur  Archibald.  I  never 
knew  a  gentleman  of  birth  who  could  feel  for  chain  mail  in 
a  more  natural  and  loving  manner,  except  perhaps  Milord 
Ruthven,  unhappily  deceased.  His  son  does  not  take  after 
him.  But  I  saw  Monsieur  Archibald  take  the  late  David, 
when  there  was  a  thought  of  going  to  work  upon  him, 
round  by  the  middle,  and  try  his  back  in  every  part  —  just 
as  though  he  loved  the  very  feel  of  him.  And  yet  the  two 
were  enemies !  And  yet  David  suspected  nothing !  It 
could  not  have  been  better  done :  so  I  sincerely  advise  you 
to  have  him.  Monsieur  d’Ormiston  you  will  of  course  take 
with  you.  He  has  ears  like  a  hare’s,  and  so  nice  a  valua¬ 
tion  of  his  own  skin  that  you  may  be  sure  the  roads  will  be 
open  for  you  when  the  affair  is  happily  ended.  But  my 
next  choice  will  astonish  you.  Be  prepared  —  listen,  my 


342 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


lord.  It  is  Monsieur  de  Lennox!  What!  you  cry — the 
father  to  put  away  the  son  !  With  great  respect,  I  hold  to 
my  opinion.  I  believe  Monsieur  de  Lennox  could  be  per¬ 
suaded  —  and  evidently  you  could  have  no  more  valuable 
colleague  —  for  two  little  reasons  of  cogency.  He  is  miser¬ 
able  in  the  ill-favour  of  our  Queen,  and  he  ardently  desires 
to  stand  well  again  with  the  English  Queen.  This,  then, 
would  be  his  opportunity  of  gratifying  both.  And  it  is  by 
no  means  outside  experience  that  a  father  should  assist  at 
his  son’s  demise.  There  was  a  well-known  case  at  Parma, 
when  we  were  in  Italy ;  and  if  the  Queen-Mother  did  not 
contrive  the  exit  of  the  late  King  Francis,  then  Maitre 
Ambroise  Pare  is  a  fool,  and  not  a  fine  surgeon.  Why  did 
she  have  the  funeral  oration  prepared  a  week  before  that 
King’s  death  ?  Ah,  the  thing  is  evident !  Both  of  these 
are  Italians,  you  will  say  ?  I  confess  it.  But  if  King 
Philip  of  Spain  hath  not  an  eye  of  the  same  cast  upon 
Monseigneur  Don  Carlos  I  shall  be  surprised  —  and  mark 
this  :  Monsieur  de  Lennox  is  a  hungry  man,  out  of  favour 
and  out  of  money.  His  lady,  who  has  the  purse,  is  in 
the  Tower  of  London ;  he  himself  dare  not  leave  Glas¬ 
gow,  where  he  starves.  Moreover,  he  has  another  son. 
Now - ’ 

But  here  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  sat  up  in  his  bed. 

‘  What  are  you  talking  about,  you  fool  ?  ’  he  asked, 
gaping. 

‘  I  am  discussing  the  making  of  your  lordship’s  road,’ 
says  Paris,  ‘  of  which  you  did  me  the  honour  to  speak 
overnight.’ 

His  master  gave  him  a  clout  on  the  head,  which  knocked 
him  sideways  to  the  floor.  ‘  You  soiled  cut-purse  !  ’  he 
roared  at  him,  ‘you  famous  pirate,  you  jack-for-the-string, 
what  are  you  about  ?  Do  you  think  you  are  at  sea,  that 
you  can  talk  bloody  designs  to  the  open  sky  ?  Do  you 
think  us  all  thieves  on  a  galley,  and  the  redding  of  a  realm 
as  easy  as  to  club  the  warder  of  a  bench  ?  Astounding 
fool !  with  your  blustering  and  botching,  you’ll  bring  me 
to  a  wooden  bolster  one  of  these  days.’  He  leaped  from 
his  bed,  and  put  his  foot  on  the  man’s  neck.  ‘  If  I  don’t 
make  you  swallow  your  infamous  tally,  call  me  a  dunce !  ’ 


CH.  XII 


SCOTCHMEN’S  BUSINESS 


343 


Paris  lay  still,  pale  but  serious.  4  It  is  difficult  to  discuss 
matters  of  moment  in  this  posture,’  he  said ;  ‘  but  I  can 
assure  your  lordship  that  I  have  given  a  great  deal  of 
thought  to  your  business.’ 

‘And  who  under  Heaven  asked  you  for  thought?’  cried 
his  master.  ‘  Or  who  in  Heaven  gave  you  the  wit  for  it  ? 
Get  up,  you  monkey-man,  and  fetch  me  my  clothes.  We 
don’t  go  to  work  that  way  in  Scotland.’ 

‘  I  am  conscious  of  it,  master,’  said  Paris,  ‘  and  pity  it  is. 
There  is  a  saying  in  Italy,  which  dates  from  a  very  old 
case  of  our  kind,  Cosa  fatta  capo  ha  :  a  thing  done ,  say  they, 
is  done  with.  Now  here,  a  thing  is  so  long  a-contriving 
that  it  is  in  danger  of  not  being  done  at  all.  Love  of 
Heaven,  sir!  for  what  would  you  wait?  What  can  your 

lordship  want  beside  the  bounden  gratitude  of  the  Qu - .’ 

He  stopped,  because  the  Earl  struck  him  on  the  mouth 
with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

‘  No  names,  you  damned  parrot !  ’ 

Paris,  ashamed  of  himself,  wiped  his  lips.  ‘  I  admit  the 
indiscretion,  my  lord,  and  regret  it.  But  my  question  was 
pertinent.’ 

‘  It  was  cursed  nonsense,’  said  the  Earl,  ‘and  as  imperti¬ 
nent  as  yourself.  Suppose  I  took  this  road  of  yours  — 
what  would  old  Sourface  be  about  ?  Where  would  his 
prim  eyes  be?  Looking  through  his  fingers  —  seeing  and 
not  seeing  —  for  sure  !  Why,  you  tosspot,  we  must  have 
him  roped  and  gagged,  or  he’ll  have  us  roped,  I  can  tell 
you  —  and  as  high  >as  Haman.  Bah !  you  make  me 
ashamed  that  ever  I  held  words  with  such  a  gull.  Peace 
now,  mind  your  business,  and  get  me  my  drink.  I  am 
going  abroad  —  then  to  the  Council.’ 

The  first  person  of  consequence  he  accosted  that  day 
was  the  Lord  of  Lethington.  The  Secretary  went  in  des¬ 
perate  fear  of  him,  as  you  could  have  told  by  the  start  he 
gave  when  he  felt  the  heavy  hand  clap  his  shoulder. 

‘  What  scares  you,  man  ?  ’  The  bluff  voice  was  heard  all 
over  the  quadrangle,  and  many  paused  to  see  the  play. 

‘  What  scares  you,  man  ?  You  watch  me  like  a  hare  —  and 
me  your  good  friend  and  all !  ’ 


344 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


‘  I  hope  to  serve  your  good  lordship,’  says  Mr.  Secretary, 
‘  in  the  service  that  holds  us  both.’ 

‘  Yes,  yes,  we  had  best  work  together.  Now  see  here, 
man  —  come  apart.’  He  took  the  unwilling  arm,  and  bent 
towards  the  timorous  ear.  Men  on  the  watch  saw  the 
Secretary’s  interest  grow  as  he  listened :  in  the  midst  of 
their  pacing  he  stopped  of  his  own  accord,  and  pulled  up 
his  companion. 

‘Yes,  my  good  lord,  I  could  do  that.  There  would  be 
no  harm.’ 

‘  Let  my  lord  of  Moray  understand,’  continues  Lord 
Bothwell,  ‘  that  signed  words  cannot  say  all  that  they  im¬ 
port.  That  is  reasonable.  But  such  as  they  are,  such  as 
they  bear,  he  himself  must  sign  with  the  rest  of  us.  I 
shall  not  act  without  him,  nor  can  the  Queen  be  served. 
Very  well.  Go  to  him  presently,  taking  with  you  my  lord 
of  Atholl.  I  seek  first  my  lord  of  Argyll,  next  my  brother 
Huntly.  We  shall  have  the  Earl  of  Crawfurd  with  us, 
Mar  I  doubt  not  also ;  the  Lords  Seton,  Livingstone, 
Fleming,  Herries - ’ 

‘  These  for  certain,’  says  Lethington ;  then  hesitated. 

‘  Well,  man  ?  Out  wi’t.’ 

‘There  is  just  this.  Your  lordship  knows  my  lord  of 
Moray — a  most  politic  nobleman.’ 

*  Politic  !  A  pest !  ’ 

‘  He  is  ever  chary  of  putting  hand  to  paper.  I  know  of 
one  band,  never  signed  by  him.  He  wrote  a  letter,  by 
which  all  thought -  But  it  purported  nothing.  How¬ 

ever,  that  is  happily  past.’ 

‘He  signed  away  Davy,’  says  Bothwell  very  calmly. 

The  Secretary  turned  quickly.  ‘No,  my  lord,  no  !  Upon 
my  oath  he  never  did.  Nothing  would  make  him.’ 

Bothwell  considered  his  twitching  brows.  ‘  He  signed 
the  letter  which  you  now  have,  Lethington.  By  that  you 
hold  him,  cunning  rogue  though  he  be.  Now,  take  me 
this  way.  If  he  signs  not  to  me  before  the  Council,  to  the 
effect  that  what  I  sign  there  he  signs  also,  I  move  no 
further.’ 

‘Your  lordship  will  be  wise.  But -  Oh,  his  fingers 

are  stiff  at  the  pen!’ 


CH.  XII 


SCOTCHMEN’S  BUSINESS 


345 


‘  Master  Cecil  in  England  can  make  them  supple,’  says 
Bothwell,  ‘working  at  them  through  the  palm.  And  so 
can  you,  my  friend,  if  I  make  you.’ 

Mr.  Secretary  closed  his  eyes. 

‘You  hold  his  letter,’  Bothwell  went  on,  ‘wherein  he 
implicates  himself  in  Davy’s  killing.  Now,  if  I  go  to  him 
with  the  news  ?  ’ 

‘Ha,  my  lord!  But  he  knows  very  well  that  I 
have  it.’ 

‘  Of  course  he  knows.  But  the  Queen  does  not  know 
it.1  Now,  if  I  tell  him  that  you  will  use  the  letter  against 
him  with  the  Queen,  Mr.  Secretary,  you  will  be  hanged.’ 

The  Secretary  flinched.  ‘  My  lord,’  he  said,  ‘what  is  it 
that  you  want  from  me?  ’ 

‘Your  master’s  sign-manual,  hireling,’  says  Bothwell. 

‘  Go  and  get  it.’ 

He  left  him  to  scheme  it  out,  of  all  wretches  in  Scotland 
at  that  hour  the  one  I  could  pity  the  most.  Lethington 
was  a  man  who  saw  every  head  an  empty  pot  compared 
with  his.  own  ;  and  yet,  by  mere  pusillanimity,  he  had  to 
empty  himself  to  fill  them.  He  was  a  coward,  must  have 
countenance  if  he  were  to  have  courage.  With  a  brain 
like  his,  a  man  might  lord  it  over  half  Europe;  yet  the 
water  in  his  heart  made  him  bondslave  of  every  old  Scots 
thief  in  turn.  The  only  two  he  dared  to  best  and  betray 

were -  Well!  we  shall  have  to  see  him  do  it  soon 

enough.  And  yet,  I  say,  pity  Mr.  Secretary  ! 

The  Earl  of  Atholl,  kindly,  dull  man,  who  was  his 
friend  through  all,  went  with  him  now  to  beard  the  Bastard 
of  Scotland.  Bolt  upright  in  his  elbow-chair,  his  Bible  on 
one  hand,  his  sword  and  gloves  on  the  other,  my  lord  of 
Moray  listened  to  what  was  said  without  movement.  His 
face  was  a  mask,  his  hands  placid,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
standish.  Atholl  talked,  Lethington  talked,  but  not  a 
word  was  said  of  Bothwell  so  long  as  the  first  of  these  two 
was  in  the  room.  The  moment  he  was  out  of  it,  the 
question  came  sharp  and  short. 

‘  Who  stands  in  the  dark  of  this,  Lethington  ?  Who  is 
at  your  back  ?  ’ 

1  My  lord  was  wrong  there.  She  knew  it  perfectly  well. 


346 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


Lethington  never  lied  to  his  master.  *  My  lord,  it  was 
the  Earl  of  Bothwell  came  suddenly  upon  me  this 
morning/ 

‘You  surprise  me,  sir.  I  had  not  thought  you  shared 
confidences  with  that  lord.’ 

‘  Nor  have  I  ever,  my  lord,’  says  Lethington,  with  much 
truth  ;  ‘  nor  did  I  to-day.  Such  confidence  as  there  was 
came  from  him.’ 

‘  Did  he  confide  in  you  indeed  ?  And  what  had  he  for 
your  ear  ?  ’ 

The  Secretary  narrowed  his  eyes.  ‘  Matters,  my  lord, 
of  such  intimacy  that  I  still  marvel  how  they  came  to  his 
knowledge.’ 

‘  I  do  not  share  your  wonder.  He  is  greatly  trusted  by 
the  Queen.’ 

‘  True,  my  lord.  But  such  things  as  he  knoweth  are 
not,  as  I  conjecture,  fully  known  to  her  Majesty.’ 

Now  it  was  that  the  Earl  of  Moray  looked  solemnly 
at  his  servant.  ‘You  shall  name  these  things  to  me, 
Lethington,  if  you  please.’ 

‘  He  knoweth,  my  lord,  for  certain,  the  names  of  all 
who  were  privy  to  the  bond  for  Davy’s  slaughter.’ 

‘  Why,  yes,  yes,’  says  Lord  Moray,  ‘  no  doubt  but  he 
does.  For  all  of  them  were  confessed  to  by  the  King, 
who,  indeed,  showed  her  Majesty  the  bond.’ 

Mr.  Secretary  looked  out  of  window.  ‘  I  said,  All  who 
were  privy,  my  lord.  I  did  not  refer  to  the  bond.  He 
knows  more  than  is  known  to  her  Majesty ;  but  considers 
now  what  may  be  his  duty  in  her  regard.’ 

My  Lord  Moray  blinked  like  an  owl  that  fears  the  light. 
He  looked  at  his  hands,  sighed,  cleared  his  brow  of  seams. 

‘  It  would  be  well  that  I  should  confer  with  his  lordship 
upon  that  matter,  before  the  Council  sits,’  he  said.  ‘  Pray 
you,  ask  him  to  favour  me  at  his  leisure — at  his  perfect 
leisure,  Lethington.  And  when  he  is  here  —  if  he  thinks 
well  to  come  —  it  would  be  convenient  that  yourself  were 
by,  in  case  of  need.  The  matter  is  a  high  one,  and  we 
may  be  thankful  of  your  experience.  God  speed  you, 
Lethington.  God  speed  you  well !  ’ 

Conference  there  then  was  between  two  acute  intellects, 


CH.  XII 


SCOTCHMEN’S  BUSINESS 


347 


which  it  would  be  profitable  to  report,  if  one  could  translate 
it.  But,  where,  in  a  conversation,  every  other  word  is  left 
out,  the  record  must  needs  be  tedious.  The  Queen  was 
not  once  mentioned,  nor  the  King  neither.  The  Earl  of 
Bothwell  gave  no  hint  that  he  knew  his  fellow-councillor 
dipped  deto  in  murder;  the  Earl  of  Moray  did  not  let  it 
appear  that  he  knew  the  other  stripping  for  the  same  red 
bath.  Each  understood  each ;  each  was  necessary  to  the 
other ;  each  knew  how  far  he  could  go  with  his  ally,  and 
where  their  roads  must  fork  ;  above  all,  both  were  states¬ 
men  in  conference,  to  whom  decency  of  debate  was  a  tradi¬ 
tion.  Naming  no  names,  fixing  no  prices,  they  haggled, 
nevertheless,  as  acutely  as  old  wives  on  the  quayside  ;  and 
Mr.  Secretary,  nimble  between  them,  reduced  into  writing 
the  incomprehensible.  Thus  it  was  that  the  Earl  of  Both¬ 
well  promised  under  his  hand  to  be  the  friend  of  the  Earl 
of  Moray,  ‘  so  far  as  lay  within  the  Queen’s  obedience  ’ ; 
the  Earl  of  Moray  signified  by  the  same  tokens  that  he 
would  attend  the  Council  and  further  the  Queen’s  service 
in  the  matters  to  be  moved  by  the  Earl  of  Bothwell,  ‘  so 
far  as  lay  within  the  province  of  a  Christian.’  Then  Lord 
Bothwell,  apparently  satisfied,  went  away  to  his  friend  and 
brother-in-law,  my  Lord  Huntly. 

To  the  Council  —  it  was  the  seventh  of  October  —  came 
the  lords :  the  Queen  not  present.  It  was  a  short  and 
curious  convocation,  as  silent  as  that  of  Hamlet’s  politic 
worms,  busy  upon  the  affairs  of  Polonius.  The  Earl  of 
Huntly,  as  Chancellor,  produced  a  parchment  writing, 
which  was  held  up,  but  not  read.  ‘  My  lords,’  he  said, 
‘  you  shall  see  in  the  act  of  my  hand  at  the  pen  a  service 
tendered  to  our  sovereign  lady,  the  which,  seeing  you  are 
acquainted  with  its  nature,  I  do  not  discuss  with  your  lord- 
ships.  Active  service  of  the  prince,  my  lords,  may  be  of 
two  kinds  :  open  movement  against  enemies  avowed,  and 
secret  defence  against  a  masked,  ambushed  enemy.’  He 
signed  the  writing,  and  passed  to  the  Earl  of  Moray. 
This  one  looked  at  it,  read  it  through  twice  ;  took  a  pen, 
inspected  the  point,  dipped  ;  detected  a  hair  in  the  quill, 
removed  it,  wiped  his  fingers,  dipped  again  —  and  signed, 


34§ 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  II 


‘James.’  The  parchment  then  went  briskly  about.  Last 
to  sign  it,  far  below  the  others,  was  the  Lord  of  Lethington. 

And  what  was  in  this  famous  bond  ?  The  Master  of 
Sempill,  eager  for  news,  got  wind  of  it,  and  enshrined  it  in 
his  Diurnall.  He  has  — 

October  the  9.  —  At  a  council  two  days  since  —  the  Q - not 

present,  but  the  Earl  of  Both,  returned  from  the  country  —  I  hear 
'  from  my  wife,  who  had  it  from  her  father  (there  present),  there 
was  a  band  passed  round  the  board,  read  silently  and  signed  by 

each  lord  present.  Its  terms :  That  the  Q -  only  should  be 

obeyed  as  natural  sovereign,  and  the  authority  of  her  dearest 
consort,  and  of  all  others  whomsoever,  of  no  force  without  her 
pleasure  first  known.  The  Lords  Both.,  Hun(tley),  Mor(ay), 
Arg(yll),  Atholl,  and  the  Secretary  signed  this,  among  others. 
My  father  not  present.  Thus  goeth  a  King  out  of  Scotland. 
Mem .  Great  news  for  my  lord  of  Mort(on)  here.  .  .  . 

The  Q.  will  go  to  Jedburgh,  I  hear,  to  a  Justice  Court ;  my 
wife  with  her.  She  took  leave  of  the  lord  of  Bothw.  after  the 
Council.  A  long  time  together.  .  .  . 

The  Master  was  out  in  his  dates.  The  very  night  after 
the  Council  Lord  Bothwell  rode  fast  into  Liddesdale  ;  and 
next  day  the  Queen,  with  her  brothers,  Lord  Huntly,  and 
the  Court,  went  over  the  hills  to  Jedburgh.  The  King  was 
believed  to  be  in  the  West  with  his  father,  but  no  one  knew 
for  certain  where  he  was. 


END  OF  men’s  BUSINESS 


BOOK  THE  THIRD 


MARKET  OF  WOMEN 


CHAPTER  I 

STORMY  OPENING 

It  is  rather  better  than  five  years  since  you  first  met  with 
Des-Essars  in  the  sunny  garden  at  Nancy,  and  as  yet  I 
have  but  dipped  into  the  curious  little  furtive  book  which, 
for  my  own  part,  although  its  authenticity  has  been  dis¬ 
puted,  I  attribute  to  him  without  hesitation  —  Le  Secret  des 
Secrets ,  as  it  is  called.  For  such  neglect  as  this  may  be  I 
have  the  first-rate  excuse  that  it  contains  nothing  to  what 
has  been  my  purpose ;  all  that  there  is  of  it,  prior  to  the 
October  1566  where  now  we  are,  seeming  to  have  been 
added  by  way  of  prologue  to  the  Revealed  Mysteries  he 
thought  himself  inspired  to  declare.  Probably,  no  secrets 
had,  so  far,  come  in  his  way,  or  none  worth  speaking  of. 
‘  Boys’  secrets,’  as  he  says  somewhere,  ‘  are  truly  but  a 
mode  of  communicating  news,  which  when  it  is  particularly 
urgent  to  be  spread,  is  called  a  secret.  The  term  ensures 
that  it  will  be  listened  to  with  attention  and  repeated 
instantly.’  You  may  gather,  therefore,  that  Le  Secret  des 
Secrets  was  not  of  this  order,  more  especially  since  he  tells 
us  himself  that  it  would  never  have  been  imparted  at  all 
but  for  the  Queen’s,  his  mistress’s,  danger.  Plainly,  then, 
he  compiled  his  book  in  Queen  Mary’s  extreme  hour  of 
need,  when  her  neck  was  beneath  her  ‘  good  Sister’s  ’  heel 
- — and  only  in  the  hope  of  withdrawing  it.  Those  were 
hasty  times  for  all  who  loved  the  poor  lady  ;  the  Secret  des 
Secrets  bears  signs  of  haste.  Its  author  scamped  his  pro¬ 
logue,  took  his  title  for  granted,  and  plunged  off  into  the 

35i 


352 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


turmoil  of  his  matter  like  the  swimmer  who  goes  to  save 
life.  But  you  and  I,  who  know  something  about  him  by 
this  time,  have  intelligence  enough  to  determine  whether 
he  was  worthy,  or  likely  to  be  judged  worthy,  of  the  keep¬ 
ing  of  a  Queen’s  heart.  So  much  only  I  have  thought  fit 
to  declare  concerning  the  origin  of  a  curious  little  book : 
for  curious  it  is,  partly  in  the  facts  it  contains,  and  even 
more  in  the  facts  it  seems  to  search  for  —  facts  of  mental 
process,  as  I  may  call  them. 

He  begins  in  this  manner :  — 

‘  About  ten  of  the  clock  on  the  night  of  the  6th~7th  Oc¬ 
tober  ’  — that  is,  the  reader  sees,  on  the  night  when  Bothwell 
kissed  her  in  the  Chequer  Garden  —  ‘the  Queen’s  Majesty, 
who  had  been  supposed  alone,  meditating  in  the  garden, 
came  stilly  into  the  house,  passed  the  hall,  up  the  stair, 
and  through  the  ante-room  where  I,  Mr.  Erskine,  Mistress 
Seton  and  Mistress  Fleming  were  playing  at  trumps  ;  and 
on  to  her  cabinet  without  word  said  by  any  one  of  us.  We 
stood  up  as  she  came  in,  but  none  spake,  for  her  looks  and 
motions  forbade  it.  She  walked  evenly  and  quickly,  in  a 
rapt  state  of  the  soul,  her  head  bent  and  hands  clasped 
together  under  her  chin,  just  as  a  priest  will  go,  carrying 
the  Sacrament  to  the  bedridden  or  dying.  But  presently, 
after  she  was  gone,  Mistress  Fleming  went  to  see  whether 
she  had  need  of  anything ;  and  returned,  saying  that  her 
Majesty  had  been  made  ready  for  bed  and  lain  down  in 
it,  without  word,  without  prayers.  Shortly  afterwards  the 
ladies  went  to  their  beds,  and  I  sat  alone  in  the  ante¬ 
chamber  on  my  duty  of  the  night ;  and  so  sitting  fell 
asleep  with  my  face  in  my  arm. 

‘  I  suppose  that  it  was  midnight  or  thereabout  when  I 
was  awakened  by  a  touch  on  my  head,  and  starting  up, 
saw  the  Queen  in  her  bedgown,  her  hair  all  loose  about 
her,  standing  above  me.  Being  unable  to  sleep,  she  said, 
she  desired  company.  I  asked  her,  should  I  read,  sing,  or 
tell  her  a  tale  ?  But  she,  still  smiling,  being,  as  I  thought, 
in  a  rapt  condition  of  trance,  shook  her  head.  “  If  you 
were  to  read  I  should  not  listen,  if  you  were  to  sing  the 
household  would  wake.  Stay  as  you  are,”  said  she,  and 
began  to  walk  about  the  chamber  and  to  speak  of  a  variety 


CH.  I 


STORMY  OPENING 


353 


of  matters,  but  not  at  all  connectedly.  I  replied  as  best  I 
was  able,  which  was  heavily  and  without  wit  —  for  I  had 
been  sound  asleep  a  few  moments  before.  Something  was 
presently  said  of  my  lord  of  Bothwell :  I  think  that  she  led 
the  talk  towards  him.  I  said,  I  marvelled  he  should  stay 
so  long  in  Liddesdale,  with  the  Court  here  in  town.  She 
stopped  her  pacing  and  crossed  her  arms  at  her  neck,  as 
I  had  seen  her  do  when  she  came  in  from  the  garden. 
Looking  closely  and  strangely  at  me,  she  said,  “  He  is  not 
in  Liddesdale.  He  is  here.  I  have  seen  him  this  night.” 
Then,  as  I  wondered,  she  sat  down  by  the  table,  her  face 
shaded  from  the  candle  by  her  hand,  and  regarded  me  for 
some  time  without  speaking. 

‘  She  then  said  that,  although  it  might  seem  very  extra¬ 
ordinary  to  me,  she  had  good  reason  for  what  she  was 
about  to  do ;  that  for  the  present  I  must  believe  that,  and 
be  sure  that  she  would  not  impart  to  me  her  greatest 
secret  had  she  not  proved  me  worthy  of  the  trust.  She 
then  told  me,  without  any  more  preface,  that  she 
should  be  called  the  happiest  of  women,  in  that,  being 
beloved,  she  loved  truly  again.  She  said  that  she  had 
been  consecrated  a  lover  that  very  night  by  a  pledge  not 
only  sweet  in  itself,  but  sweet  as  the  assurance  of  all  sweet¬ 
ness.  She  touched  her  mouth;  and  “Yes,”  she  said,  “all 
unworthy  as  I  am,  this  great  treasure  hath  been  bestowed 
into  my  keeping.  See  henceforward  in  me,  most  faithful, 
proved  friend,  not  your  mistress  so  much  as  your  sister,  a 
servant  even  as  you  are,  devoted  to  the  greatest  service  a 
woman  can  take  upon  her — subjection,  namely,  to  Love, 
that  p2iissant  and  terrible  lord.” 

‘While  I  wondered  still  more  greatly,  she  grew  largely 
eloquent.  Her  soul,  she  said,  was  in  two  certain  hands 
“  like  a  caught  bird  ”  ;  but  such  bondage  was  true  freedom 
to  the  generous  heart,  being  liberty  to  give.  She  owned 
that  she  was  telling  me  things  known  to  no  others  but 
herself  and  her  beloved.  “  I  am  your  sister  and  fellow- 
servant,”  said  she,  “  whispering  secrets  in  the  dark.  Marvel 
not  at  it;  for  women  are  so  made  that  if  they  cannot 
confide  in  one  or  another  they  must  die  of  the  burning 
knowledge  they  have ;  and  I,  alas,  am  so  placed  that,  with 


354 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


women  all  about  me,  and  loving  women,  there  is  none,  no, 
not  one,  in  whom  I  can  trust.” 

‘  I  knew  already  who  her  lover  was,  and  could  not  but 
agree  with  her  in  what  she  had  to  admit  of  her  women. 
One  and  all  they  were  against  my  lord  of  Bothwell. 
Mistress  Livingstone  hated  him  so  vehemently  she  could 
not  trust  herself  near  him ;  Mistress  Fleming  was  at  the 
discretion  of  Mr.  Secretary  Lethington,  a  declared  enemy 
of  his  lordship’s ;  Mistress  Beaton  was  wife  to  a  man  who 
did  not  deny  that  he  was  still  the  servant  of  Lady  Both¬ 
well  ;  in  Mistress  Seton  my  mistress  never  had  confided. 
So  she  had  some  reasons  for  what  she  was  pleased  to 
do  —  another  being  that  I,  of  all  her  servants,  had  been 
most  familiar  with  his  lordship  —  and  I  was  certain  that  she 
had  others,  not  yet  declared.  Indeed,  she  hinted  as  much 
when  she  said  that  she  had  proved  me  upon  a  late  occasion, 
that  she  loved  me,  and  knew  of  my  love  for  her.  “  In 
time  to  come,”  said  she  —  “I  cannot  tell  how  soon  or  in 
what  sort,  such  matters  being  out  of  my  hands  —  I  may 
have  to  ask  you  other  service  than  this  of  listening  to  my 
confidence ;  I  may  require  of  you  to  dare  great  deeds,  and 
to  do  them.  If  you  will  be  my  sworn  brother,  I  shall  see 
in  you  my  champion-at-need,  and  be  the  happier  for  the 
knowledge.  What  say  you,  then,  Baptist?”  she  asked  me. 

‘  Kneeling  before  her,  I  promised  that  I  would  keep  her 
secret  and  do  all  her  pleasure.  I  watched  her  throughout. 
She  was  quite  composed,  entirely  serious,  did  not  seem  to 
imagine  that  she  was  playing  a  love-sick  game  —  and  was 
not,  altogether.  I  am  sure  of  that,  watching  her  as  I  did. 
She  made  me  lift  my  right  hand  up,  and  stooped  forward 
and  kissed  the  open  palm  before  she  went  away.  Here  is 
the  beginning  of  Mysteries,  which  I,  unworthy  servant,  was 
privileged  to  share.’ 

I  am  not,  myself,  prepared  to  say  that  there  is  more 
mystery  in  this  than  the  young  man  put  into  the  telling  of 
it.  She  trusted  the  youth,  required  an  outlet,  and  made, 
in  the  circumstances,  the  wisest  choice. 

Two  days  after  the  performance,  at  any  rate,  she  set 
out  for  Jedburgh,  as  you  know,  in  a  fine  bold  humour  and 


CH.  I 


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with  a  fine  company.  She  went  in  state  and  wore  her 
state  manners  ;  rode  for  the  most  part  between  her  brother 
Moray  and  the  Earl  of  Huntly,  seemed  to  avoid  her  women, 
and  had  little  to  say  to  them  when  of  necessity  they  were 
with  her.  She  did  her  bravest  to  be  discreet,  and  there  is 
no  reason  to  suppose  that  anybody  about  her  had  more 
than  an  inkling  of  the  true  state  of  her  heart.  Lord 
Bothwell’s  leave-taking  had  been  done  in  public  the  day 
before,  and  gallantly  done.  He  had  been  at  the  pains  to 
tell  her  that  he  was  going  to  his  wife,  she  to  smile  as  she 
commended  him  for  his  honest  errand.  She  had  given 
him  her  hand  and  wished  him  well,  and  had  not  even 
followed  him  with  her  looks  to  the  door.  The  Earl  of 
Moray,  not  an  observant  man  by  nature,  suspected 
nothing ;  what  Lord  Huntly  may  have  guessed  he  kept 
to  himself.  This  poor  speechless,  enamoured  nobleman  ! 
his  trouble  was  that  he  kept  everything  to  himself  and 
congested  his  heart  as  well  as  his  head-piece.  So  much 
so  that  the  Queen  once  confessed  to  Adam  Gordon,  his 
brother,  that  she  had  ‘  forgotten  he  was  a  lover  of  hers  ’ ! 
She  spent  the  first  night  out  at  Borthwick,  and  next  morn¬ 
ing  rode  on  to  Jedburgh  in  madcap  spirits  —  which  were 
destined  to  be  rudely  checked  by  what  she  met  there. 
A  slap  in  the  face,  sharp  enough  to  stop  the  breath,  it  was : 
news  with  which  the  town  was  humming.  It  seemed  that 
the  Earl  of  Bothwell  had  fought  in  the  hills  with  Elliot  of 
Park,  had  slain  his  man,  and  been  slain  of  him. 

My  Lord  Moray  was  the  first  to  bear  her  this  tale;  and 
when  he  told  it  —  just  as  nakedly  as  I  have  put  it  up  there 
—  she  turned  upon  him  a  tense,  malignant  face,  and  said 
that  he  lied.  ‘  Madam,  I  grieve,’  says  he  —  ‘  my  lord  of 
Bothwell  lies  dead  in  Liddesdale.’  ‘  O  liar,  you  lie  !  ’  she 
said,  ‘or  God  lives  not  and  reigns.’  Many  persons  heard 
her,  and  saw  the  proud  man  flinch ;  and  then  Des-Essars, 
young  Gordon,  and  Lethington  all  broke  into  the  room 
together,  each  with  his  version  gathered  out  of  gossip. 
My  lord  was  not  killed,  as  had  been  feared  at  first,  but 
sorely  wounded,  lying  at  Hermitage,  three  doctors  about 
him,  and  despaired  of.  ‘  One  doctor  !  one  doctor !  ’  cried 
Adam,  correcting  Lethington. 


356 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


‘  I  waited  by  him/  says  Des-Essars,  *  and  then,  while 
she  looked  wildly  from  one  face  to  another,  I  said  that 
it  was  true  there  was  but  one  doctor,  and  that  the  case 
was  none  so  desperate.  She  flew  at  me.  “  How  do  you 
know  this?  How  do  you  know  it?”  I  replied  that  I 
had  just  got  the  tale  from  French  Paris.  I  think  she 
would  have  fallen  if  I  had  not  put  my  hands  out,  which 
made  her  draw  back  in  time.  “  French  Paris  !  ”  cried  she ; 
“  why,  then,  my  lord  has  sent  word.  Fly,  fly,  fly,  Baptist : 
bring  him  to  me.”  This  I  did,  to  the  great  discomfiture 
of  one,  at  least,  in  her  company.’ 

Thus  Des-Essars  turns  his  honours  to  account. 

She  saw  the  valet  alone,  and  sent  him  away  with  his 
pockets  lined :  afterwards  her  spirits  rose  so  high  that 
had  Moray  noticed  nothing  he  must  have  been  the  most 
careless  of  men.  She  made  inordinately  much  of  Des- 
Essars,  fondling  him  in  all  men’s  sight ;  she  gave  him  a 
gold  chain  to  hang  round  his  neck,  and  said,  in  her 
brother’s  presence,  that  she  would  belt  him  an  earl  when 
he  was  older ;  4  for  thus  should  the  prince  reward  faithful 
service  and  the  spoken  truth.’  He  affected  not  to  have 
heard  her  —  but  it  was  idle  to  talk  of  secrets  after  that. 
Here  was  a  rent  in  the  bag  big  enough  for  the  cat’s  head. 

And  it  would  appear  that  she  herself  was  aware  of  it, 
for  after  a  couple  of  days,  just  enough  time  for  the 
necessary  ceremonial  business  of  her  coming,  she  gave 
out  publicly  her  intention  to  ride  into  Liddesdale,  and 
her  pleasure  that  Moray,  Huntly,  and  the  Secretary 
should  accompany  her.  Others  would  she  none,  save 
grooms  and  a  few  archers.  My  Lord  Moray  bowed  his 
head  in  sign  of  obedience,  but  spoke  his  thoughts  to  no 
man.  He  kept  himself  aloof  from  the  Court  as  much  as 
he  could,  in  a  house  of  his  own,  received  his  suitors  and 
friends  there  at  all  hours,  maintained  considerable  state 
—  more  grooms  at  his  doors  than  at  the  Queen’s.  Some 
thought  he  was  entrenching  himself  against  the  day  when 
his  place  might  be  required  of  him ;  some  thought  that 
day  not  far  off.  All  were  baffled  by  the  Queen’s  choice 
of  him  and  his  acquiescence. 

Betimes  in  a  morning  which  broke  with  gales  and  wild 


CH.  I 


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fits  of  weeping  from  the  sky,  she  set  out,  going  by  Bedrule, 
Hobkirk,  and  the  shoulder  of  Windburgh  Hill.  Nothing 
recked  she,  singing  her  snatches  of  French  songs,  whether 
it  blew  or  rained  ;  and  the  weather  had  so  little  mercy  on 
her  that  she  was  wetted  through  before  she  had  won  to 
Stitchell  —  the  most  southerly  spur  of  a  great  clump  of 
land  from  which,  on  a  fair  day,  you  can  look  down  upon 
all  Liddesdale  and  the  Vale  of  Hermitage.  There,  on 
that  windy  edge,  in  a  driving  rain  which  blew  her  hair  to 
cling  about  and  sheathe  her  face  like  jagged  bronze,  she 
stayed,  and  peered  down  through  the  mist  to  see  her 
trysting-place.  But  a  dense  shower  blotted  out  the  valleys; 
and  the  castle  of  the  Hermitage  lies  low,  scowling  in 
shade  be  the  sun  never  so  high.  Undaunted  still,  although 
she  saw  nothing  but  the  storm  drowning  the  lowlands, 
it  added  to  her  zest  that  what  she  sought  so  ardently  lay 
down  there  in  mystery.  Singing,  shaking  her  head  —  all 
her  colours  up  for  this  day  of  hide-and-seek  —  fine  carmine, 
gleaming  nut-brown  eyes,  scarlet  lips  parted  to  show  her 
white  teeth — she  looked  a  bacchante  drunk  upon  fierce 
draughts  of  weather,  a  creature  of  the  secret  places  of  the 
earth,  stung  by  some  sly  god.  The  bit  in  her  teeth, 
fretting,  shaking  her  head  —  who  now  should  rein  her  up  ? 
Two  out  of  the  three  men  with  her  watched  her  closely  as 
she  stood  on  Stitchell,  resolving  this  doubt ;  the  third,  who 
was  Huntly,  would  not  look  at  her.  Primly  pried  my 
lord  of  Moray  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  and  pursed 
his  lips  and  ruled  his  back  more  than  common  stiff.  But 
gloomily  looked  Mr.  Secretary,  as  he  chewed  a  sour  root : 
he  felt  himself  too  old  for  such  a  headlong  service  as  hers 
must  be,  and  too  weary  of  schemes  to  work  with  Moray 
against  her.  Yet  he  must  choose  —  he  knew  it  well. 
Finely  he  could  read  within  the  chill  outlines  of  that 
Master  of  his  destiny  all  the  sombre  exhilaration  which  he 
was  so  careful  to  hide.  ‘  He  hath  set  his  lures,  this  dark 
fowler ;  he  hath  his  hand  upon  the  cords.  The  silly 
partridge  wantons  in  the  furrow  :  nearly  he  hath  his  great 
desire.  But  what  to  me  are  he  and  his  desires,  O  my  God, 
what  are  they  to  me?’  He  thought  of  Mary  Fleming 
now  at  her  prayers,  thanking  her  Saviour  for  the  glory  of 


358 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


his  love.  His  love  —  Lethington’s  love  !  Lord,  Lord,  if  he 
dared  to  mingle  in  so  fragrant  a  pasture  as  hers,  what 
should  he  do  raking  in  the  midden  with  an  Earl  of 
Moray?  Overdriven,  fragile,  self-wounding  wretch  —  pity 
this  Lethington. 

It  is  true  that  Lord  Moray  saw  the  partridge  in  the 
shadow  of  the  net ;  it  is  true  that  he  was  elated  in  his 
decent  Scots  way ;  but  you  would  have  needed  the  trained 
eyesight  of  Lethington  to  detect  the  quiver  of  the  nerves. 
The  Queen  broke  in  upon  all  reflections,  coming  towards 
them  at  a  canter  :  ‘  Set  on,  sirs,  set  on  !  The  hours  grow 
late,  and  we  cannot  see  our  haven.  Come  with  me, 
brother ;  come,  my  Lord  Huntly.’  Down  into  the  racing 
mists  they  went,  squelching  through  quag  and  moss. 

Hermitage  made  the  best  show  it  could  in  the 
Sovereign’s  honour.  Every  horse  in  the  country  was 
saddled  and  manned  by  some  shag-haired  Hepburn  or 
another.  Where  Hermitage  Water  joins  Liddel  they  met 
her  in  a  troop,  which  broke  at  her  advance  and  lined 
the  way. 

No  pleasant  sight,  this,  for  my  lord  of  Moray.  ‘The 
Hepburns !  ’  cried  he,  when  he  saw  them.  ‘  Caution, 
madam,  caution  here.  What  and  if  they  compass  a 
treachery  ?  ’ 

‘  La-la-la,’  says  the  Queen.  ‘  Methinks,  I  should  know 
a  traitor  when  I  see  him.  Come,  my  lord,  come  with  me.’ 
But  when  he  would  not,  she  struck  her  horse  on  the  flank, 
and  Huntly  spurred  to  follow  her  close.  Cantering  freely 
into  the  midst,  she  held  out  her  hand,  saying,  ‘Sirs,  you 
are  well  met.  Am  I  well  come?  ’ 

They  closed  about  her,  howling  their  loyalty,  and  some 
leaned  over  the  saddle-peak  to  catch  at  her  skirt  to  kiss  it. 
She  made  them  free  of  her  hand,  let  them  jostle  and 
mumble  over  that;  they  fought  each  other  for  a  touch 
of  it,  struck  out  at  horses’  heads  to  fend  them  off  while 
they  spurred  on  their  own  ;  they  battled,  cursed,  and 
howled  —  for  all  the  world  like  schoolboys  at  a  cake.  To 
Moray’s  eyes  she  was  lost,  swallowed  up  in  this  horde  of 
cattle-thieves;  for  he  saw  the  whole  party  now  in  motion, 
jingling  and  bickering  into  the  white  mist.  He  lifted  up 


CH.  I 


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a  protestant  hand.  ‘  Oh,  Mr.  Secretar,  oh,  sir,  what 
cantrips  are  these  ?  ’ 

*  She  is  the  Scythian  Diana,’  says  Lethington,  grinning 
awry,  ‘  and  these  are  her  true  believers.  We  are  dullards 
not  to  have  known  it.’ 

‘  She  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians,  I  largely  gather,’  his 
master  replied.  ‘  Come,  come,  we  must  follow  to  the  end.’ 
For  his  own  part,  he  judged  the  end  not  far. 

Her  dripping  skirts  so  clung  about  her  —  to  say  nothing 
that  she  was  rigid  with  stiffness  and  shot  all  over  with 
rheumatic  pains  —  she  had  to  be  helped  from  the  saddle 
and  supported  by  force  into  the  house.  A  bound  victim 
of  love,  tied  by  the  knees !  upon  Huntly’s  arm  and 
Ormiston’s  she  shuffled  into  the  hall,  and  stood  in  the 
midst,  boldly  claiming  hospitable  entreaty.  It  was  sorry 
to  see  her  eager  spirit  hobbled  to  a  body  so  numbed.  As 
from  the  trap  some  bright-eyed  creature  of  the  wood  looks 
out,  so  she,  swaying  there  on  two  men’s  arms,  testified  her 
incurable  hope  by  colour  and  quick  breath.  But  calm  and 
cold,  as  the  moon  that  rides  above  a  winter  night,  stood  the 
Countess  of  Bothwell  with  her  women,  and  stately  curtsied. 

The  Queen  laughed  as  she  swayed.  ‘  I  am  a  mermaid, 
my  child,’  says  she,  ‘  sadly  encumbered  by  my  weeds.  I 
have  lost  my  golden  comb,  and  my  witching  song  is  gone 
in  a  croak.  You  need  not  fear  to  take  me  in.’ 

The  young  Countess  said,  ‘  Suffer  me  conduct  your 
Majesty  to  the  chambers.  All  the  household  stuff  is  at 
your  service.’ 

She  shook  her  head.  ‘Witchcraft  may  come  back  with 
comfort !  No,  no,  my  dear,  I  will  not  plunder  you.  I 
shall  do  very  well  as  I  am.’  Madness  !  She  was  on  pin¬ 
points  till  she  saw  her  lover ;  but  it  was  not  that  which 
made  her  refuse  warmth  and  dry  clothes.  It  was  a  word 
of  her  own,  which  had  turned  aside  as  she  used  it  and 
given  her  a  stab.  Would  she  not  ‘  plunder  ’  this  lady,  good 
lack  ?  She  had  a  scruple,  you  perceive. 

Tongue-tied  Huntly  was  in  great  distress.  ‘I  would 

heartily  urge  you,  madam - ’  and  so  forth ;  and  his 

sister  made  the  cold  addition  that  all  was  prepared. 


360 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


The  Queen  was  now  trembling.  *  You  are  kind  —  but  I 
have  no  need.  I  am  very  well,  and  cannot  stay  long. 
Let  me  fulfil  my  errand  —  see  my  wounded  councillor  —  and 
depart.  Come,  take  me  to  him  now.  Will  you  do  me 
this  kindness  ?  ’  She  spoke  like  a  child,  with  eagerness  too 
simple  to  be  indecent. 

‘  I  will  prepare  my  lord,  madam,  for  the  high  honour 
you  propose  him,’  says  the  Countess,  after  a  moment’s 
pause. 

‘  Yes,  yes —  go  now.’ 

She  went  to  the  fire  and  held  her  shaking  hands  towards 
it.  Do  what  she  could,  there  was  no  staying  the  shivering- 
fits,  nor  the  clouds  of  steam  that  came  from  her,  nor  the 
ring  of  water  round  her  skirts. 

Huntly  was  miserable.  ‘  I  beseech  you,  I  beseech  you, 

madam,  dry  yourself.  This  is -  Oh,  but  you  run  into 

grave  peril.  I  would  that  I  could  make  you  believe  that 
all  this  house  is  yours,  and  all  hearts  in  it - ’ 

‘All  hearts  —  all  hearts  —  it  may  be,’  she  said  with  a 
break  in  her  voice  ;  ‘  but  some  there  are  here  with  no 
hearts.  Ah,  what  heart  is  in  a  body  that  would  not  find 
some  pity  for  me  ?  ’ 

He  was  dreadfully  moved,  leaned  ardently  towards  her. 
‘Madam!  madam!  You  know  my  heart  —  I  have  never 
hid  it  from  you.  You  talk  of  pity.  Why,  is  not  the 
piteous  heart  acquaint  with  pitifulness?  Ah,  then  pity 
me  !  Let  me  serve  you.’ 

Then  her  ague  ceased,  and  she  looked  at  him  full,  with 
brimming  eyes.  1  Take  me  up  to  him,  Huntly.  I  cannot 
bear  myself.’ 

The  fine  colour  flushed  him.  *  Come,  madam  ;  I  will 
take  you.’ 

She  followed  him  up  the  stair  —  and  the  Earl  of  Moray’s 
eyes  followed  her. 

Here  is  one  difference  between  imagination  and  fancy, 
that  the  first  will  leap  full-fledged  into  the  life  of  the  upper 
air  from  the  egg  of  its  beginning,  while  the  second  crouches 
long  callow  in  the  nest,  and  must  be  fostered  into  plumage 
before  it  can  take  its  pretty  flights.  Here,  of  these  two 


CH.  I 


STORMY  OPENING 


361 


who  had  been  separate  for  a  week,  she  had  flown  far 
beyond  the  man’s  wayfaring,  and  stood  upon  a  height 
which  he  could  scarcely  hope  to  see.  To  keep  touch  with 
her  might  call  for  all  his  wit.  For  what  had  actually 
passed  between  them  but  a  couple  of  snatched  kisses  in  the 
dark  ?  No  more,  upon  his  honour,  to  his  sense.  For 
though  he  had  built  upon  them  a  fine  castle  —  with  the  bricks 
of  Spain  —  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  own  himself  a 
fool  for  so  doing.  But  she  !  Not  only  had  she  reared  a 
fair  solid  house  of  chambers  and  courts,  but  she  had  lived 
with  him  in  it,  a  secret  life.  Here  she  had  had  him  safe 
since  the  hour  he  left  her  in  the  garden.  In  her  thought 
he  was  bound  to  her,  she  to  him,  by  sacraments  ;  they 
were,  like  all  lovers,  of  eternal  eld.  No  beginning  and  no 
end  will  love  own  up  to.  It  is  necessary  to  remember  this. 

Therefore,  while  he  made  an  effort  to  get  up  from  the 
bed  on  which  he  lay  strapped,  she  had  prevented  him  by 
running  forward  and  kneeling  lover-wise  by  his  side.  As 
she  had  hoped,  she  was  now  lower  than  he,  nearer  the 
floor ;  thence  she  had  looked  searchingly  in  his  face,  but 
said  nothing,  too  full  of  love,  too  bashful  to  begin.  The 
Countess  stood  at  the  bed-head,  her  brother  Huntly 
drooped  at  the  foot.  The  Queen  had  no  eyes  for  them. 

‘Speak  to  me  of  your  welfare  —  assure  me.  I  have 
been  in  great  grief.’ 

To  this  he  could  only  stammer  some  words  of  thanks, 
not  perceiving  yet  by  any  means  on  what  side  to  take  her. 
But  she  would  have  none  of  his  thanks. 

‘You  must  speak  to  me,  for  I  have  dreamed  deeply 
of  this  hour.  Ah,  how  they  have  stricken  you !  ’  She 
touched  his  bandages,  lingering  about  that  one  upon  his 
head  as  if  she  could  not  leave  it  alone.  ‘  Oh,  curious 
knife,  to  search  so  deep !  Oh,  greedy  Park,  to  take  so 
much!  But  I  think  I  should  have  taken  more  —  had  I 
been  wiser.’ 

‘Rise,  madam,  rise,’  he  said,  ‘or  I  must  rise.  I  may 
not  see  you  kneeling.’ 

She  laughed.  ‘  I  shall  tell  you  my  wicked  thought 
when  I  knew  that  I  should  see  you  lying  here,’  she  said, 
‘and  then  you  will  not  grudge  me  my  knees.  No,  but  you 


362 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


shall  shrive  me  again  as  once  before  you  did  —  if  you  are 
merciful  to  poor  women.’ 

As  it  was  evident  that  she  disregarded  and  would  dis¬ 
regard  any  company  in  the  room,  Huntly  began  to  speak, 
with  a  good  deal  of  dignity.  ‘  Madam,  by  your  leave - ’ 

She  looked  about,  and  saw  him  ready  to  quit  her. 

1  Yes,  yes,’  she  said,  ‘  do  what  you  will  ’ ;  and  turned  to 
her  absorbing  service. 

‘Come,  sister,’  says  Huntly,  and  beckoned  out  the 
Countess,  who  swiftly  followed  him.  He  shut  the  chamber 
door. 

The  Countess  had  great  self-command.  ‘  Will  you  tell 

me  what  this  means,  Huntly  ?  ’ 

He  looked  at  her,  knitting  his  black  brows.  ‘  I  think 

you  know  very  well,  sister.’ 

As  she  was  walking  away  from  him  to  her  own  chamber, 
he  called  her  back.  She  had  her  hand  on  the  latch. 

‘  Well  ?  ’  she  said,  ‘  what  more  ?  ’ 

‘This  much,’  said  he.  ‘You  see  how  it  is  now  with 
those  two.  What  you  purpose  to  do  in  the  likely  flow  of 
affairs  I  know  not ;  but  I  know  my  own  part.  I  cannot 
forget  that  I  stand  debtor  to  her  for  my  honour,  my  mere 
life,  and  all  my  hope  in  the  world.  She  has  suffered,  been 
very  friendless,  forsaken  oft,  betrayed  on  all  hands — mine 
among  them.  She  may  suffer  yet  more ;  but  not  again  by 
me,  nor  I  hope  by  any  of  my  kin.  She  will  be  forsaken 
again ;  but  I  will  never  forsake  her  now.  She  will  need 
friends  in  time  to  come  :  well,  she  may  reckon  upon  one. 
Long  ago  I  prayed  her  to  trust  Gordon,  and  at  the  time 
she  had  little  cause  to  do  it.  Now  you  shall  see  her  answer 
my  desire — and  not  in  vain.  So  much,  for  all  that  she 
hath  forgiven  in  me,  and  for  all  that  she  hath  redeemed  for 
me  —  so  much,  I  tell  you,  I  owe  her.’ 

The  Countess  returned  his  gaze  with  no  less  steadfast¬ 
ness,  from  under  brows  no  less  serried.  ‘  And  I,’  she  said, 
‘  a  Gordon  as  much  as  you  are,  do  owe  her  more  than  you 
choose  to  acknowledge  for  your  part.’ 

She  went  into  her  chamber ;  but  Huntly  remained  in 
the  gallery  outside  the  shut  doors. 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  BRAINSICK  SONATA 

Asked  afterwards  by  his  brother-in-law  Argyll  how  he 
had  survived  that  long  battle  homewards  through  the 
howling  dark,  the  Earl  of  Moray,  citing  scripture,  had 
replied,  Except  the  Lord  had  been  on  our  side  —  /  How  far 
he  strained  the  text,  or  how  far  hoped  of  it,  he  did  not 
choose  to  say,  but  in  his  private  mind  he  thought  he  saw 
all  the  fruit  ready  to  fall  to  his  hand  whenever  he  should 
hold  it  out.  No  need  to  shake  the  tree.  The  Queen’s 
white  palfrey  made  a  false  step  and  went  girth-deep  into 
the  moss.  None  could  see  her,  for  she  had  spurred  on 
alone  into  the  jaws  of  the  weather,  feeling  already  (it  may 
be)  the  fret  of  the  fever  in  her  bones  which  afterwards 
overcame  her ;  nor  could  any  hear  her,  for  she  let  no  cry. 
And  when  the  horse,  struggling  desperately,  hinnied  his 
alarms,  it  had  not  been  Lord  Moray  who  had  hastened  to 
save.  Huntly,  rather,  it  was  who,  shrieking  her  name  into 
the  wind,  caught  at  last  the  faint  echo  of  her  voice,  and 
plunged  into  the  clinging,  spongy  mess  to  her  rescue. 
Alas,  then,  was  she  mad  ?  or  drunk  with  love  ?  ‘  Here  I 

am,  Mary  of  Scotland,  clogged  and  trammelled,  like  a  bird 
in  a  net.’  And  then,  O  Lord  of  Life !  she  had  laughed 
snugly  and  stroked  herself  —  there  in  the  gulf  of  death. 
Huntly,  a  man  for  omens,  dated  all  misery  to  come  from 
this  staring  moment. 

After  it  he  would  not  let  go  of  her  rein  for  the  rest  of 
the  ride,  but  braved  (as  never  before)  her  coaxing,  irony, 
rage  —  lastly  her  tears  of  mortification.  Longing  to  be 

363 


364 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


alone  with  her  lover,  hating  the  very  shadow  of  any  other 
man,  she  was  scathing  and  unworthy.  ‘  If  Bothwell  were 
here  you  would  not  dare  what  now  you  do.  You  hold  me 
because  there  is  no  man  to  stop  you.  It  is  a  brave  show 
you  make  of  me  here  !  Well,  take  your  joy  of  numb  flesh 
—  how  are  you  likely  to  be  served  with  it  quick  ?  ’  and  so 
on  mercilessly.  Towards  the  end  of  an  intolerable  journey 
she  became  drowsy  through  fatigue,  and  rather  light¬ 
headed.  The  honest  gentleman  put  his  arm  round  her 
and  induced  her  head  to  his  shoulder.  She  yawned  in¬ 
cessantly,  her  wits  wandered  ;  she  spoke  to  him  as  if  he 
were  Bothwell,  and  set  his  cheeks  burning.  For  a  few 
minutes  at  a  time,  now  and  again,  she  slept,  while  he 
supported  her  as  best  he  could,  all  his  reverent  love  for 
the  exquisite,  flashing,  crowned  creature  of  his  memories 
swallowed  up  now  in  pity  for  the  draggled  huntress  in 
her  need. 

She  was  too  tired  to  sleep  when,  late  at  night,  they  had 
laid  her  abed.  She  tossed,  threw  her  head  and  arms 
about,  was  hot,  was  cold,  shivered,  sweated,  wailed  to 
herself,  chattered,  sang,  whined  nonsense.  At  first  the 
women,  having  her  to  themselves,  learned  all  that  she  had 
been  careful  to  hide  from  them ;  all  that  Huntly  had  shut 
within  the  chamber  door  at  Hermitage  was  enacted  before 
them — or  a  kind  of  limping,  tragic  travesty  of  it.  So  then 
they  grew  frightened,  and  lost  their  heads  :  Mary  Living¬ 
stone  sent  after  Lord  Moray  ;  Mary  Fleming  called  in 
Lethington  ;  Mary  Seton,  with  presence  of  mind,  fetched 
Des-Essars.  Before  a  keen  audience,  then,  she  harped 
monotonously  and  grotesquely  upon  the  day’s  doings. 
She  read  scraps  of  her  poems  to  Bothwell  —  and  few  had 
known  that  she  had  writ  any  !  She  wooed  him  to  stoop 
down  his  head,  wreathed  her  arms  about  a  phantom  of 
him,  tortured  and  reproached  herself.  All  was  done  with 
that  straining  effort  to  rehearse  which  never  fails  in  sickbed 
delirium. 

‘  Ah,  wait — wait  before  you  judge  me,  my  lord.  I  have 
a  better  piece  yet — with  more  of  my  heart’s  blood  in  the 
words.  Now,  now,  how  does  it  go?’  She  began  to  cry 
and  wring  her  hands.  ‘  Oh,  give  me  my  coffer  before  he 


CH.  II 


THE  BRAINSICK  SONATA 


365 


leaves  me!  This  one  piece  he  must  have.  I  wept  when 
I  wrote  it  —  let  him  see  the  stain.’  She  was  running  still 
upon  her  poems.  Fleming  was  to  give  her  the  little 
coffer,  of  which  the  key  was  always  round  her  neck. 

Lord  Moray  was  earnest  that  it  should  be  given  her, 
but  would  not  let  it  be  seen  how  earnest.  ‘  Maybe  it  will 
soothe  her  to  have  the  coffer.  Give  it  her,  mistress,’  he 
said. 

Des-Essars,  seeing  his  drift,  was  against  it,  but  of  course 
could  do  nothing. 

They  gave  the  box  into  her  wandering  hands,  and  she 
was  quiet  for  a  while,  nursing  it  in  her  arms ;  neither 
seeking  to  open  it  nor  trying  her  memory  without  it.  It 
was  to  be  hoped,  even  now,  that  she  would  betray  herself 
no  further. 

What  need  to  deny  that  Lord  Moray  was  curious  ? 
He  shook  with  curiosity.  The  thing  was  of  the  utmost 
moment;  and  it  commands  my  admiration  of  this  patient 
man  to  know  that  he  could  be  patient  still,  and  sit  by  his 
sick  sister’s  bed,  his  head  on  his  hand  —  and  all  his  hopes 
and  schemes  trembling  to  be  confirmed  by  a  little  gim- 
crack  gilt  box  !  The  prize  he  fought  for  he  got  —  betraying 
nothing,  he  heard  her  betray  all.  When  the  madness 
wrought  in  her  again,  she  opened  the  coffer,  and  began 
to  patter  her  verses  as  she  hunted  in  it,  turning  paper  after 
paper  (every  scrap  her  condemnation),  incapable  of  reading 
any. 

Her  mind  seemed  full  of  words.  They  came  over  her 
in  clouds,  flocking  about  her — clambering,  winged  creatures, 
like  the  pigeons  which  crowd  and  flicker  round  one  who 
calls  them  down.  They  formed  themselves  in  phrases,  in 
staves,  in  verses  —  laboriously  drilled  to  them,  no  doubt  — 
once  coherent,  but  now  torn  from  their  sequence,  and,  like 
sections  of  a  broken  battle-line,  absolutely,  not  relatively 
whole.  Simple  verse  it  was,  untrained,  ill-measured ;  yet 
with  a  hurt  note  in  it,  a  cry,  a  whimper  of  love,  infinitely 
touching  to  read  now  —  but  to  have  heard  it  then  from  the 
dry  lips,  to  have  had  it  come  moaning  from  the  blind, 
breathless,  insatiable  girl !  Des-Essars  says  that  he  could 
scarcely  endure  it. 


366 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


*  Las !  ’  one  snatch  began  — 

Las  !  n’est-il  pas  ja  en  possession 
Du  corps,  du  cceur  qui  ne  refuse  paine, 

Ny  dishonneur,  en  la  vie  incertaine, 

Offense  de  parents,  ni  pire  affliction? 

What  a  hearing  for  my  Lord  Moray  !  And  again  she 
broke  out  falteringly  — 

Entre  ses  mains  et  en  son  plein  pouvoir 
Je  metz  mon  filz,  mon  honneur  et  ma  vie, 

Mon  pais,  mes  subjects,  mon  ame  assubjectie 
Est  tout  k  luy,  et  n’ay  autre  vaulloir 
Pour  mon  object  que  sans  le  decevoir 
Suivre  je  veux  malgre  toute  Penvoie 
Qu’issir  en  peult.  .  .  . 

Her  voice  broke  here,  and  with  it  the  thread  :  she  could 
not  continue,  but  looked  from  one  to  another,  tears  stream¬ 
ing  down  her  cheeks,  nodded  her  head  at  them,  and  ‘You 
know,  you  know,’  she  whimpered,  ‘  this  is  the  very  truth.’ 
Alas !  they  could  not  doubt  it. 

And  then,  suddenly,  as  it  were  at  the  parting  of  a 
cloud,  her  soul  looked  out  of  her  eyes  sanely;  she  came 
to  herself,  saw  the  disturbed  faces  of  her  friends,  and 
caught  sight  of  her  brothers  among  them.  She  jumped 
about  as  quickly  as  a  caught  child,  and  that  lightning, 
sentinel  wit  of  hers  sprang  upon  guard.  But  for  a 
moment  —  when  she  saw  Moray  there —  she  betrayed  her¬ 
self.  ‘  Oh,  brother,  you  startled  me !  ’  she  said. 

He  was  careful.  ‘  Alas  !  I  find  you  in  grief,  madam.’ 

‘  Thoughts,  brother,  thoughts  !  ’ 

‘  Sad  thoughts,  I  fear,  madam.  We  are  concerned  to 
find  your  Majesty  so  disturbed.’ 

She  eyed  him  vaguely,  being  unable  just  then  to  realise 
how  completely  she  had  yielded  him  her  secret.  Extreme 
fatigue  swam  over  her ;  her  head  nodded  even  as  she 
watched  him.  When  Mary  Livingstone  laid  her  down 
gently  and  stroked  her  hair  back  she  drowsed  into  a 
swooning  sleep.  Over  her  unconscious  form  a  hasty 
little  drama  was  enacting,  very  curious. 

The  Earl  of  Moray,  seeing  her  hold  relaxed,  rose  quietly 


CH.  II 


THE  BRAINSICK  SONATA 


367 


from  his  chair  and  stretched  one  of  his  hands  towards  the 
gilt  coffer.  Des-Essars,  in  a  flash  of  thought,  nudged 
Huntly.  ‘Quick,’  he  whispered  —  ‘take  the  coffer’;  and 
Huntly  whipped  his  arm  out  and  reached  it  first.  Moray 
drew  back,  as  a  cat  his  paw  from  a  wetness,  and  shuddered 
slightly.  Huntly  says,  in  a  low  voice:  ‘Monsieur  Des- 
Essars,  I  give  this  casket  in  your  charge  until  her  Majesty 
shall  give  direction.  It  is  open.  Come  with  me  and  I 
will  seal  it.’ 

Moray  was  not  the  man  to  forgive  such  a  thing  in  the 
Queen’s  page ;  nor  did  he  ever. 

She  was  awake  and  fully  conscious  for  a  few  hours  of 
the  next  day.  Father  Lesley,  an  old  friend,  was  allowed 
to  see  her,  and  needed  not  the  evidence  of  physic,  ticks  of 
the  pulse,  heat  of  the  blood  :  he  could  use  his  senses. 

He  warned  her  of  her  extremity.  This  was  a  grave 
matter,  graver  than  she  might  suppose.  Her  eyes  turned 
upon  him,  black  and  serious ;  but  then,  after  a  little,  she 
smiled  up  saucily  in  his  face.  ‘  Why,  I  hope,’  she  said, 

‘  there  is  no  need  to  fear  death  —  if  death  it  be.  I  am  sure 
my  friends  will  plead  kindly  for  me,  and  as  for  my 
enemies,  what  can  they  say  worse  than  they  have  said  ?  ’ 

‘The  Christian,  ma’am,’  says  Lesley,  ‘has  no  concern 
with  friend  or  foe  at  such  a  time.  The  road  he  must 
travel,  he  will  have  no  arm  to  bear  upon,  save  the  proffered 
arm  of  the  Cross.’ 

‘  True,’  she  said.  ‘  I  hope  I  shall  die  a  Christian,  as  I 
have  tried  to  live.’ 

Her  mind  must  have  been  preternaturally  sharp,  for  a 
chance  word  of  the  admonition  which  he  thought  good  to 
deliver  set  it  to  work.  ‘  Likewise  it  behoveth  the  Christian, 
madam  —  so  strict  an  account  is  required  of  the  highly 
favoured  —  to  repent  him  of  the  mischances  of  sleep  and 
dreams.  Unlawful,  luxurious  dreaming,  the  mutterings  of 
sinful  words  when  our  bodies  lie  bound  in  slumber  are 
stumbling-blocks  to  the  soul  agog  to  meet  his  Saviour  at 
the  gate.’ 

He  rambled  on  and  on,  the  godly  ignoramus,  the  while 
her  wits  flew  far.  Mutterings  of  dreams  —  had  she 


368 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


betrayed  herself  ?  Then  —  to  whom  ?  It  behoved  her  to 
be  certain.  She  bundled  out  the  priest  and  had  in  the 
confidant.  From  Des-Essars  she  learned  the  extent  of  her 
delirium ;  he  brought  her  the  casket,  unlocked,  sealed  by 
the  Chancellor,  from  which,  he  told  her,  she  had  read 
‘certain  sonnets.’  Love-laden  lady!  she  stopped  him 
here,  laughing  as  she  fingered  her  coffer,  lifting  and 
snapping-to  the  lid.  ‘  My  sonnets?  They  are  here,  many 
and  many.  I  shall  read  them  to  him  some  day.  And  to 
you  some.  Shall  I - ?  ’ 

Positively,  she  was  about  to  begin,  but  he  implored  her 
to  lock  up  the  box  of  mischief  and  secrete  it  somewhere. 

‘  Guard  it  for  me,  my  dear,’  she  said.  ‘  What  else  have 
I  done  in  my  fever  ?  ’ 

He  told  her,  many  hidden  matters  had  been  disclosed, 
as  well  of  the  King  as  of  others.  It  was  not  for  him  to 
say  that  nothing  was  left  unrevealed ;  only  that  he  knew 
of  nothing.  She  had  spoken,  for  instance,  of  a  token,  and 
had  pointed  to  where  it  lay.  Her  eyes  sparkled  as  she 
flashed  out  her  hand  from  under  the  bedclothes,  holding 
forth  a  ring  upon  a  chain.  ‘  Here  it  is  !  He  gave  it  me 
himself,  and  fastened  it  upon  me  with  a  kiss.’ 

‘Ha!’  He  was  frightened.  ‘Let  me  keep  it  safe  for 
you,  madam,  until - ’ 

‘  Safe  ?  Will  they  cut  it  from  my  body,  think  you  ? 
Never,  never.  You  shall  watch  over  my  casket,  but  this  is 
a  part  of  me.’ 

He  makes  free  to  comment  upon  this  episode.  ‘And  I 
confess,’  he  says,  ‘  that  I  exulted  in  her  constant  noble 
courage,  and  found  nothing  amiss  in  it,  that  she  had  stooped 
from  her  high  estate.  Rather  I  held  it  matter  for  praise 
and  excitation  of  the  thought  and  sense.  For,  properly 
viewed,  there  is  nothing  of  beauty  more  divine  than  holy 
humility,  nor  hath  there  ever  been  since  once  the  Lord  of 
Glory  and  Might  bowed  His  sacred  head.’ 

But  when  she  would  have  had  him  devise  with  her  fresh 
methods  of  concealment,  dust-throwing,  head-burying,  and 
the  like,  he  told  her  fairly  that  it  was  too  late. 

‘  I  am  bold  to  assure  your  Majesty  that  there  is  no  man 
nor  woman  about  this  Court  that  wots  not  throughly  of 


CH.  II 


THE  BRAINSICK  SONATA 


369 


your  Majesty’s  private  affairs.  And,  madam,  if  Dolet,  if 
Carwood,  if  Mistress  Fleming  and  Mistress  Seton  talk  to 
each  other  of  them  over  the  hearth,  what  think  you  can  be 
hidden  from  my  lord  of  Moray— to  say  not  that  he  hath 
been  constant  at  your  bedside,  and  hath  heard  you  cry 
verses  ?  ’ 

Pondering  these  fateful  truths,  suddenly  she  tired  of 
shifts.  ‘  Well,  then,  come  what  may  of  it,’  she  cried  out, 
‘  let  them  whisper  their  fill.  I  have  done  with  whispering.’ 

She  said  that  she  wished  to  sleep  —  had  the  maids  in 
and  composed  herself  to  that  end.  About  midnight  she 
awoke  terribly  in  pain ;  shivering,  crying  aloud  that  her 
hour  was  come,  unable  to  turn.  The  doctors  were  called 
to  her,  all  the  house  was  broad  awake.  She  began  after 
a  time  to  vomit  blood,  and  so  continued  for  a  night,  a  day 
and  a  night,  shaken  to  pieces  and  at  her  last  gasp. 

Under  this  new  agony  she  weakened  so  fast  that  the 
crying  aloud  of  secrets  stopped  for  mere  weakness :  all 
believed  that  she  must  die.  The  Earl  of  Moray,  who  had 
kept  aloof  after  his  fierce  little  struggle  with  Huntly,  now 
assumed  the  direction  of  affairs,  none  staying  him.  He 
took  upon  himself  to  send  for  the  King,  that  being  his 
duty,  as  he  said,  to  the  State.  The  duty  was  not  to  be 
denied,  though  there  was  peril  in  it. 

‘  I  fear,  my  lord,’  said  Lethington,  ‘  I  fear  the  effect  of 
the  King’s  presence  upon  her  Majesty’s  frail  habit.’ 

Lord  Huntly  roundly  said  that  any  ill  effect  from  such  a 
measure  would  lie  at  his  colleague’s  door.  ‘  And  I  marvel 
much,  my  lord  of  Moray,  that  you,  who  have  heard  her 
Majesty’s  wandering  speech  and  know  the  extremes  of  her 
dislike,  should  have  proposed  to  call  hither  the  one  person 
left  in  Scotland  whom  she  hath  reason  at  once  to  reproach 
and  fear.’ 

Moray  waved  his  hand.  ‘The  Queen,  my  sister,  is  at 
death’s  door.  And  will  you  tell  me  who  has  so  much  right 
to  lead  her  to  it  as  her  husband  ?  ’ 

‘To  drive  her  to  it,  belike  your  lordship  means!’  cried 
Huntly  as  he  flung  out  of  the  room.  His  counter-stroke 
was  to  send  word  over  to  the  Hermitage.  Let  Bothwell 
make  haste.  Adam  Gordon  took  the  message. 


370 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


But  before  either  King  or  lover  could  be  looked  for  there 
dawned  a  day  upon  Jedburgh,  upon  the  darkened  grey 
house  in  the  Wynd,  which  the  Queen  herself  believed  to  be 
her  last.  She  was  in  that  state  of  the  body  when  the 
ghostly  tenant,  all  preened  for  departure,  has  clear  do¬ 
minion,  and  earthly  affections  and  earthly  cares  are 
ridded  and  done  with.  In  other  words,  she  had  forgotten 
Bothwell. 

She  confessed  to  Father  Roche  and  received  the  Sacra¬ 
ment;  she  kissed  her  Maries  —  all  there  but  Lady  Boyne, 
who  had  been  Beaton;  called  the  lords  about  her  and 
looked  gently  in  the  face  of  each  in  turn  —  not  asking  of 
them  any  more,  but  enjoining,  rather,  and  as  if  requiring. 
4  My  lords,  under  the  wise  hands  of  God  I  lie  waiting  here, 
and  what  I  speak  is  from  the  verge  of  the  dark.  Serve,  I 
desire  you,  the  prince  my  son,  remembering  his  tender 
helpless  years,  and  dealing  patiently  with  his  silly  under¬ 
standing.  Be  not  harsh  with  them  that  are  left  of  the  old 
religion :  you  cannot  tax  me  with  severity  to  your  own. 
Let  Scotland  serve  God  in  peace,  every  man  after  his  own 
conscience.  I  am  too  weak  to  command,  and  have  no 
breath  to  spare  for  beseeching.  My  lords,  this  is  my  last 
desire.  Is  there  any  here  who  will  refuse  me  ?  ’ 

She  looked  about  from  one  strong  face  to  another ;  saw 
Huntly  crying,  Argyll  struggling  to  keep  tears  back, 
Lethington  with  his  head  bowed  down,  as  if  he  would  pray. 
She  saw  her  half-brother  John  Stuart  watching  her  from 
under  his  brows ;  lastly  her  half-brother  Moray,  whose 
face,  fixed  and  blanched,  told  her  nothing.  Sighing,  she 
raised  herself.  Here  was  one  for  her  dying  breath,  for  one 
last  cajolery !  She  put  up  her  hand  to  touch  his,  and  he 
started  as  if  suddenly  awakened,  but  commanded  himself. 

‘  Brother,’  she  said,  in  a  whisper  half  audible, 4  oh,  brother, 
vex  none  in  Scotland,  for  my  sake.’ 

He  stooped,  took  up  and  kissed  her  hand ;  and  she  let  it 
fall  with  a  long  sigh  of  content.  Presently  after,  she 
straightened  herself,  as  if  conscious  of  the  near  end,  joined 
her  palms  together,  and  began  the  Creed  in  a  sharp,  painful 
voice  quite  unlike  her  own,  fantastic  and  heart-piercing  at 
once.  In  the  middle  she  stopped. 


CH.  II 


THE  BRAINSICK  SONATA 


37i 


‘  Qui  propter  nos  homines  et  propter — et propter -  I 

misremember  the  rest - ’ 

‘  Salutem ,  madam,  ’tis  nostram  salntem ,’  says  Father 
Lesley,  with  a  sob. 

‘God  give  it  me,  a  sinner/  she  said,  and  turned  her 
cheek  to  the  pillow,  and  lay  caught  and  still.  The  phy¬ 
sician  put  his  hand  to  her  heart,  and  made  a  sign.  Lesley 
tiptoed  to  the  windows  and  set  them  open. 

The  Earl  of  Moray  lifted  up  his  head.  ‘  I  fear,  my 
lords,  that  the  worst  is  come  upon  us.  The  Queen,  my 
sister  —  alas  !  ’  He  covered  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then,  in 
a  different  tone  and  a  changed  aspect,  began  to  give  order. 

‘  Mr.  Secretary,  cause  messengers  to  ride  to  Glasgow  to  the 
prince’s  father.  My  Lord  Chancellor,  you  should  convene 
a  council  of  the  estates.  Doctor,  I  must  have  a  word 
with  you.’ 

By  these  sort  of  phrases  he  sent  one  and  all  flocking  to 
the  door  like  sheep  about  a  narrow  entry.  Des-Essars 
lingered  about,  but  what  could  he  do?  The  Earl’s  cold 
eye  was  upon  him. 

‘  You,  sir  —  what  do  you  here?  I  will  deal  with  you  anon. 
Meantime,  avoid  a  matter  which  is  not  for  you.’ 

The  lad  went  out,  hanging  his  head. 

Last  to  go  were  the  weeping  maids  and  Father  Roche, 
the  Queen’s  Confessor,  who,  before  he  left  her,  placed  his 
crucifix  under  her  closed  hand. 

This  too  was  observed.  ‘Take  up  your  idol,  sir,’  said 
Lord  Moray;  ‘take  back  your  idol.  Suchlike  are  vain  things.’ 

But  Father  Roche  took  no  notice  of  him,  and  went  away 
without  his  crucifix. 

The  physician  had  remained,  a  little  twinkle-eyed  man, 
with  white  eyebrows  like  cornices  of  snow.  He  curved  and 
raised  them  before  the  greatest  man  in  Scotland. 

‘  You  need  me,  my  lord  ?  ’ 

‘  I  do  not  at  this  present.  Await  my  summons  in  the 
ante-room.’ 

He  was  alone  with  the  passing  soul,  which  even  now 
might  be  adrift  by  the  window,  streaming  out  to  its  long 
flight. 


372 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


He  looked  sharply  and  seriously  about  the  room, 
omitting  nothing  from  his  scrutiny.  There  stood  the 
writing-desk  in  the  window,  covered  in  geranium  leather, 
with  stamped  ciphers  in  gold  upon  it,  A  and  M  interlaced, 
the  Crown-royal  of  France  above  them.  He  stole  to  it  and 
tried  it :  locked.  He  lifted  it  from  the  table,  put  it  on  the 
floor  under  the  vallance  of  the  bed,  then  went  on  searching 
with  his  keen  eyes. 

These  winning  him  nothing,  he  moved  softly  about  and 
tried  one  or  two  likely  coverts  —  the  curtains,  the  vallance  ; 
moved  a  hand-mirror,  disturbed  some  books,  a  cloak  upon 
a  chair.  He  was  puzzled,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth, 
bit  his  finger,  hesitating.  Presently  he  crept  up  to  the  bed 
and  looked  at  her  who  lay  there  so  still.  He  could  see  by 
the  form  she  made  that  she  was  crouched  on  her  side  with 
her  knees  bent,  and  judged  it  extraordinary,  and  talked  to 
himself  about  it.  ‘  They  lie  straighter  —  down  there.  They 

prepare  themselves -  Who  would  die  twisted  ?  What 

if  the  soul - ?  ’  His  heart  gave  him  trouble.  He  stopped 

here  and  breathed  hard. 

The  hand  that  held  the  crucifix  —  it  was  the  right  hand 
—  was  out:  it  showed  a  ring  upon  one  finger,  only  one. 
The  left  hand  he  could  not  see  —  but  it  was  very  necessary 
to  be  seen.  Gingerly  he  drew  back  the  bedclothes,  slowly, 
tentatively,  then  more  boldly.  They  were  away :  and 
there  lay  the  casket,  enclosed  within  the  half-hoop  of  the 
body.  That  she  should  have  tricked  him  in  her  dying 
agony  was  a  real  shock  to  him,  and,  by  angering,  gave  him 
strength.  He  reached  out  his  hand  to  take  it  —  he  touched 
it  —  stopped,  while  his  guilty  glance  sought  her  grey  face. 
O  King  Christ!  he  saw  her  glimmering  eyes,  all  black, 
fixed  upon  him  —  with  lazy  suspicion,  without  wink  of  eye¬ 
lid  or  stir  of  the  huddled  body  to  tell  him  whether  she  lived 
or  was  dead.  His  tongue  clove  to  his  palate  —  he  felt 
crimson  with  shame :  to  rob  the  dead,  and  the  dead  to  see 
him  !  After  a  pause  of  terrible  gazing  he  stepped  back¬ 
wards,  and  back,  and  back.  He  felt  behind  him,  opened 
the  door,  and  called  hoarsely :  ‘  The  Queen  lives !  She 
lives!  Come  in  —  come  in  !  ’ 

The  passages  were  alive  in  an  instant,  doors  banged, 


CH.  II 


THE  BRAINSICK  SONATA 


373 


feet  scampered  the  stairs.  The  first  person  to  come  in  was 
Des-Essars,  turned  for  the  moment  from  youth  to  Angel  of 
Judgment.  He  dashed  by  Moray,  threw  himself  upon  the 
Queen’s  coffer,  snatched  it,  and  with  it  backed  to  the  wall. 
There,  with  his  arms  about  it,  he  stood  at  bay,  panting  and 
watching  the  enemy. 

But  the  room  was  now  full.  Women,  crowded  together, 
were  all  about  the  bed.  In  the  midst  knelt  the  doctor 
by  the  Queen.  Huntly,  Lethington,  Argyll,  and  Ersldne 
stood  grouped. 

‘  What  have  you,  Baptist,  in  your  hands  ?  ’  says 
Huntly. 

‘  It  is  her  Majesty’s  treasure,  my  lord,  which  you  com¬ 
mitted  to  my  keeping.’ 

‘  Where  gat  you  it,  man  ?  ’  asked  Argyll. 

But  before  he  could  be  answered  my  Lord  Moray  lifted 
up  hand  and  voice.  ‘  Let  all  them,’  he  said,  ‘  that  are  of 
Christ’s  true  Church  give  thanks  with  me  unto  God  for 
this  abounding  mercy.’ 

Lethington,  Argyll,  some  of  the  women,  stood  with 
covered  faces  while  his  lordship  prayed  aloud.  Huntly 
watched  the  Queen,  and  presently  got  his  great  reward. 
Her  eyes  were  turned  upon  him ;  she  knew  him,  nodded 
her  head  and  smiled.  He  fell  to  his  knees. 

So  quick  her  recovery,  in  two  days’  time  there  was  no 
more  talk  of  the  piece  of  Scotland  or  of  the  Credo  half- 
remembered.  The  earth  and  the  men  of  the  earth  resumed 
their  places  and  re-pointed  their  goads ;  as  she  grew 
stronger  so  grew  her  anxieties.  Lord  Bothwell  sent,  by 
Adam  Gordon  (who  had  gone  to  fetch  him)  his  humble 
duty  to  her  Majesty,  ‘  thanking  God  hourly  for  her  recovery.’ 
His  physicians,  he  said,  would  in  no  wise  suffer  him  attempt 
the  journey  as  yet  —  no,  not  in  a  litter.  The  Queen  chafed, 
and  wrote  him  querulous  letters ;  but  nothing  would  tempt 
him  out.  She  got  very  few  and  very  guarded  replies,  so 
fell  to  her  sonnets  again. 

The  truth  is,  that  the  Earl  of  Bothwell,  having  set  his 
hand  to  a  business  which,  if  temperately  handled,  promised  . 
most  fair,  kept  rigidly  to  the  line  he  had  thought  out  for 


374  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  iii 

himself ;  and  thus  affords  the  rare  example  of  a  man  who, 
by  nature  advancing  upon  gusts  of  passion,  can  keep 
himself,  by  shrewd  calculation,  to  an  orderly  gait.  The 
means  to  his  end  which  he  had  appointed,  and  took,  were 
of  the  most  singular  ever  used  by  expectant  lover — -to 
French  Paris,  for  instance,  they  were  a  cause  of  dismay  — 
and  yet  they  succeeded  most  exactly.  They  were,  in  fact, 
to  do  nothing  at  all.  He  had  found  out  by  careful  study  of 
the  lady  that  the  less  he  advanced  the  farther  she  would 
carry  him,  the  less  he  asked  for  the  more  she  would  lay  at 
his  feet,  the  less  he  said  the  larger  her  interpretation  of  his 
hidden  mind.  She  was  a  fine,  sensitive  instrument  —  like  a 
violin,  now  wounded,  now  caressed  by  the  bow,  shrieking 
when  he  slashed  at  the  strings,  sobbing  when  he  plucked 
them  with  callous  fingers,  moaning  when  he  was  gentle, 
shrilling  when  he  so  chose  it.  In  a  word,  he  had  to  deal 
with  loyalty,  extreme  generosity,  a  magnanimity  which 
knew  nothing  of  the  sale  and  exchange  of  hearts.  He  had 
known  this  for  some  years ;  he  now  based  his  calculations 
upon  it  without  ruth  —  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  whom 
her  magnificent  largess  could  appeal;  and  (as  French  Paris 
would  say)  of  the  last  nation  in  the  world.  To  a  man  like 
him  the  gift  only  imports,  not  the  giving.  It  is  an  actuary’s 
question ;  while  to  her  and  her  kind  the  act  is  the  whole 
of  the  matter :  deepest  shame  were  to  know  herself  rich  in 
one  poor  loincloth  while  he  had  a  bare  patch  whereon  to 
hang  it.  She  was  that  true  Prodigal,  most  glorious  when 
most  naked. 

Des-Essars,  alone  in  her  confidence  during  these  hours 
of  strain,  makes  an  acute  deduction.  ‘  Her  letters  of  this 
time  will  show  very  plainly,’  he  says,  4  that  she  was  brought 
by  his  chill  silence  to  that  extreme  point  of  desire  where 
sacrifice  and  loss  see7n  the  top  of  bliss.  It  was  no  longer 
a  man  that  she  longed  for,  but  an  Act.  Fasting  for  a 
Sacrament,  the  bread  and  wine  of  her  need  was  Surrender. 
I  say  that  this  fond  distress  of  hers,  these  absorbed  eyes 
filled  often  with  tears  for  no  reason,  her  suspense  when  wait¬ 
ing —  and  vainly  —  for  a  messenger’s  return;  her  abandon¬ 
ment  before  the  altar,  her  cries  in  the  night  —  such  things, 
I  say,  were  reasonable  to  me,  and  to  all  who,  in  the 


CH.  II 


THE  BRAINSICK  SONATA 


375 


Florentine’s  phrase,  have  “  understanding  of  love.”  But  to 
the  Court  it  seemed  unreasonable.’ 

Unreasonable  !  It  seemed  perverse,  unspeakable.  The 
maids  were  dumb  with  shame.  The  one  thing  which  Mary 
Fleming  would  not  discuss  with  Lethington,  or  allow  him 
to  discuss  in  her  hearing,  was  the  Queen’s  disease.  Mary 
Livingstone  went  about  like  one  in  a  trance — sand-blind, 
stumbling  after  some  elfin  light.  She  spoke  to  none, 
remembered  none.  Judge  the  feelings  of  her  Master  of 
Sempill,  who  could  tell  his  friends  in  England  nothing ! 
Mary  Seton,  too,  kept  her  pretty  lips  locked  up.  Once, 
when  Fleming  pressed  her,  —  what  time  they  were  abed  — 
she  said  shortly :  ‘  I  am  her  servant,  and  shall  be  till  I  die. 
If  you  are  her  judge,  I  know  it  not.  You  are  none  of 
mine.’ 

‘No,  no,  no!’  cried  poor  Fleming.  ‘You  wrong  me. 
Who  am  I  to  judge  ?  ’ 

‘  Who  indeed  ?  ’  said  Mary  Seton,  and  turned  over. 

The  Court  was  divided  in  these  harassing  days,  because 
the  Earl  of  Moray  drew  off  a  large  proportion  of  it  to  his 
own  house.  Thither  resorted  Argyll,  Glencairn  and  Atholl, 
my  lord  of  Mar  when  he  could,  and  Lethington  when  he 
dared ;  there  also  and  always  was  the  Lord  Lindsay,  that 
blotched  zealot,  with  his  rumpled  hair  and  starched  frill. 
Huntly,  of  course,  held  closely  by  the  Queen,  refusing  to 
admit  the  second  Court;  Lord  Livingstone  was  faithful,  as 
became  the  father  of  Mary  Sempill.  He  rubbed  his 
chapped  hands  over  the  fire,  and  cried  three  times  a  day 
that  all  was  well :  a  folly  so  palpable  that  everybody 
laughed.  Lesley  stayed  by  her,  a  tearful  spectacle  ;  Lord 
Herries  too,  very  gloomy.  Such  state  as  there  was  —  and 
it  was  draggled  state  —  Arthur  Erskine  and  Traquair 
maintained  ;  but  the  Queen  was  quite  unconscious  of  state. 
Royal  dignity  had  never  been  a  virtue  of  hers ;  she  was 
always  either  too  keen  or  too  dejected  to  have  time  for  it. 
Whether  old  Lord  Livingstone  treated  her  jocosely,  or  old 
Lord  Mar  with  implied  reproof  in  every  grating  search  for 
a  word  —  if  Bothwell  had  written  she  did  not  heed  them  ; 
and  if  he  had  not,  she  sat  watching  for  French  Paris  at  the 
window,  and  still  did  not  heed  them. 


376 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


And  undoubtedly  old  Lord  Livingstone  was  jocose  — 
abounded  in  nods  and  winks.  ‘Just  a  fond  wife,’  he  de¬ 
scribed  her  to  his  friends,  and  so  treated  her  to  her  face. 
It  is  to  be  believed,  had  she  heard  it,  that  she  would  have 
been  proud  of  the  title.  So,  during  the  misty  short  days 
and  long  wet  nights  of  October  she  cheapened  her¬ 
self  in  Love’s  honour,  and  was  held  cheap  by  Scotch 
thickwits. 

On  the  night  of  the  28th  of  the  month  the  King  came 
to  see  her.  He  arrived  very  late,  and  departed  in  a  fury 
within  the  twenty-four  hours.  His  clatter,  his  guards,  his 
horses  and  himself  filled  the  town ;  he  took  up  lodging  in 
the  Abbey,  and  caused  himself  to  be  announced  by  heralds 
at  the  lowly  door  of  the  Queen’s  House. 

Perhaps  she  was  worn  out  by  watching  for  another 
comer  ;  perhaps  she  was  ill,  perhaps  angry  —  it  is  not  to  be 
known.  She  would  hardly  notice  him  when  he  came  in  ; 
spoke  languidly,  dragging  her  words,  and  would  not  on 
any  account  be  alone  with  him.  He  demanded,  as  his 
right,  that  her  women  should  leave  her;  she  raised  her 
eyebrows,  not  her  eyes,  until  he  repeated  his  desire  in  a 
louder  voice. 

Then  she  said,  ‘  What  right  have  you  kept,  what  right 
have  you  ever  done,  that  you  should  have  any  rights  left 
you  here  ?  ’ 

‘  Madam,  I  have  every  right  —  that  of  a  father,  that  of  a 
consort  —  ’ 

‘You  have  waived  it  —  refused  it  —  denied  it  —  and 
betrayed  it.’ 

‘  Ah,  never,  never  !  ’ 

‘Twice,  sir,  to  my  bitter  cost.’ 

He  laughed  harshly  to  hear  such  words.  *  Sirs,’  he  said 
to  those  with  him,  ‘  I  see  how  it  is.  Rumour  for  once  is  no 
fibster.’ 

‘  Come  away,  my  lord,  come  your  ways,’  said  old  Living¬ 
stone.  ‘  You  will  do  harm  to  yourself.’ 

He  cried  out,  ‘  None  shall  dictate  to  me  in  this  realm.’ 

And  then  Moray  said,  ‘  Sir,  I  would  seriously  advise  you 
—  for  your  good  - - ’ 


CH.  II 


THE  BRAINSICK  SONATA 


3  77 


The  King  stared  at  him,  gibed  at  him.  *  If  you  seek 
my  good,  my  lord,  God  judge  me,  ’tis  for  the  first 
time.’ 

‘  It  is  the  good  of  us  all,’  said  Moray.  ‘  Her  Grace  is 
overwrought.  Let  me  entreat  your  patience.  This  coming 
is  something  sudden,  though  so  long  attended.  In  the 
morning  maybe - ’ 

The  King  threatened.  ‘  And  what  is  this  but  the  morn  ? 
The  morn !  The  morn’s  morn  I  depart  with  the  light,  and 
for  long  time  —  be  you  sure  of  that.’ 

He  kept  his  word  ;  and  she,  proud  of  her  loyalty,  wrote 
to  her  lover  how  constant  she  had  been.  ‘He  would  have 
stayed  did  I  but  nod.  Guess  you  how  stiff  I  kept  my 
head.’  That  touching  sentence  brought  Lord  Bothwell 
hot-foot  to  Jedburgh  —  to  find  her  waiting  for  him  at  the 
head  of  the  stair. 

She  could  hardly  suffer  him  to  come  into  the  room  :  her 
longing  seemed  to  choke  her.  ‘You  have  come  to  praise 
me  —  O  generous  lover  !  You  can  trust  me  now  !  Oh,  tell 
me  that  I  have  been  faithful !  ’ 

He  turned  shortly  and  shut  the  door.  Then,  ‘  Madam,’ 
he  said  bluntly,  ‘  I  cannot  praise  you  at  all,  though  I 
must  not  presume  to  do  otherwise.’ 

She  paled  at  that,  and  smiled  faintly,  as  if  to  show  him 
that  the  pain  could  be  borne. 

‘  I  am  very  dull,  my  lord.  Speak  plainly  to  me.’ 

So  indeed  he  did.  ‘You  should  at  all  costs  have  kept 
him  by  you.  At  all  costs,  madam,  at  all  costs.  Here  we 

could  have  dealt  with  him — but  now - !’  He  stopped 

an  exclamation  of  fury,  just  in  time.  ‘And  who  can  tell 
whether  he  will  try  you  again  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  ill  judged. 
I  regret  it.’ 

She  pored  upon  his  face,  wonder  fanning  her  eyes.  ‘  You 
regret  my  faith  !  Regret  my  honour,  saved  for  you ! 
Strange  griefs,  my  lord.’ 

‘  I  regret  ill  policy.  The  man  is  treasonable  up  to  the 
ears:  there  were  many  ways  of  doing.  Now  there  are 
none  at  all.  Gone,  all  gone !  What  have  I  dared  to  pray 
for  —  what  you  have  deigned  to  offer  me ;  what  my  ears 
have  heard  and  my  eyes  seen — all  that  my  senses  have 


378 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


lured  me  to  believe  :  this  one  act  of  your  Majesty’s  has 
belied !  Ah !  ’  He  dug  his  heel  into  the  carpet.  He 
folded  his  arms.  *  Well,  it  is  not  for  me  to  reproach  my 
Sovereign,  or  to  complain  that  her  realm  holds  one  fool  the 
more.  The  Lord  gives  and  takes  away — pshaw  !  and  why 
not  the  Lady  ?  ’ 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him,  there  being  none  to 
stay  her.  ‘  Oh,  what  are  you  saying  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  ’ 
She  came  close,  she  crept,  touched  his  face.  ‘  If  you  doubt 
me  I  must  die.  Prove  me  —  behold  me  here.  Take  me  — 
I  am  yours.’ 

‘No,  madam,’  he  snarled  like  a  dog,  ‘a  pest  upon  it ! 
You  are  not  mine  :  you  are  his.’ 

She  sank  down,  kneeling  by  the  table,  and  hid  her  face. 
Murmuring  some  excuse,  that  she  was  overwrought,  that 
he  would  fetch  women,  he  left  her  and  went  directly  to 
Lord  Moray’s  house.  There  he  found  Lethington. 

‘  The  Queen  is  very  ill,  as  it  seems  to  me,’  he  said,  ‘nor 
is  it  hard  to  see  where  is  the  core  of  her  malady.  If  that 
loon  from  Glasgow  comes  ruffling  before  her  again,  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  answer  for  what  I  may  do.  Tell  you 
that  to  my  lord,  I  care  not ;  nay,  I  desire  you  to  tell  him. 
We  should  be  friends,  he  and  I,  for  we  now  have  one  aim 
and  one  service,  and  as  sworn  servants  should  do  our  duty 
without  flinching.  I  commit  these  thoughts  to  you, 
Lethington,  that  you  and  I,  with  your  patron  here,  may 
take  counsel  together  how  best  to  serve  the  Queen  with  a 
cure  for  her  disease.  It  is  indurate,  mark  you  ;  we  may 
need  to  cut  deep  ;  but  it  becomes  not  men  to  falter.  You 
and  I  have  had  our  differences,  which  I  believe  to  be  sunk 
in  this  common  trouble.  We  may  be  happy  yet  —  God 
knows.  Devise  something,  devise  anything,  and  you  shall 
not  find  me  behindhand.  Let  there  be  an  end  of  our 
factions.  Why,  man,  there  are  but  two  when  all’s  said  — 
the  Queen’s  and  that  other’s.  Count  me  your  friend  in 
any  occasion  you  may  have.  Farewell.  You  will  find  me 
at  Hermitage.’ 

Lethington  was  greatly  moved.  ‘  Stay,  my  lord,  stay,’ 
he  said,  coming  forward  with  propitiatory  hands.  ‘  My 
lord  of  Moray  will  receive  you.’ 


CH.  II 


THE  BRAINSICK  SONATA 


37  9 


‘  I  can’t  stay.  There  are  good  reasons  for  going,  and 
none  for  staying  —  now  that  that  fellow  is  safe  in  Glasgow 
again.  Let  my  lord  do  his  part  and  call  upon  me  for  mine. 
When  do  you  wed,  Lethington  ?  ’ 

The  Secretary  blushed.  ‘  It  stands  with  the  Queen’s 
pleasure,  my  lord.  My  mistress  would  never  fail  hers,  and 
so  I  must  be  patient.’ 

‘  Hearken,  my  good  friend,’  said  Bothwell,  with  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  I  am  pretty  well  in  her  Majesty’s  favour, 
I  believe.  Now,  if  a  word  from  me - ’ 

‘  Upon  my  soul,  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  your  lordship.’ 

*  Say  no  more,  man.  You  shall  be  sped  to  church. 
Farewell.’ 

He  rode  fast  to  Hermitage  that  day,  and  threw  himself 
upon  his  bed.  They  told  him  that  the  Countess  was 
asleep. 

‘Why,  then,’  says  he,  ‘she  shall  have  her  sleep  while 
she  can.’ 

As  he  had  expected,  he  got  a  letter  next  noon,  with 
tears  upon  it,  had  he  cared  to  look  for  them,  and  in  every 
stiff  clause  a  cry  of  the  heart.  .  .  . 

I  submit  myself  henceforward  wholly  unto  you.  ...  In  you 
is  all  my  hope,  my  only  friend,  without  whom  I  cannot  endure. 

.  .  .  Prove  me  again  :  I  shall  not  fail  you.  All  this  night  I  have 
kept  watch  while  the  world  is  asleep.  Now  I  am  very  sure  I  shall 
not  fail  again.  Sir,  if  I  think  apart,  it  is  because  I  dwell  apart ; 
but  if  I  may  trust  you  that  shall  be  amended.  I  pray  it  be.  But 
I  hear  you  say,  It  is  for  yourself  to  deal  in  it.  Again  I  beseech 
your  patience  if  I  am  slow  to  learn  how  best  to  please  you.  My 
tutors  and  governors  praised  me  as  a  child  for  aptness  to  learn. 
Now  the  lessons  grow  sharper  and  I  the  more  dull.  .  .  . 

My  brother  came  to  visit  me  this  few  hours  since.  He  spake 
kindly  of  you,  and  of  him 1  as  the  sole  mischief-worker  here,  i 
answered  as  I  thought  myself  free  to  do,  but  now  misdoubt  me, 
fearful  of  your  displeasure.  You  used  harsh  punishment  towards 
me :  I  feel  sore  beaten,  as  with  rods.  If  I  sleep  I  shall  be  the 
stronger  for  it;  but  that  is  easy  said.  Now  if  I  write  Alas !  you 
may  scorn  me ;  and  yet  I  feel  directed  to  no  other  word,  save 


1  King  Henry  Darnley. 


380 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


Welladay !  Sir,  if  it  should  stand  within  your  pleasure  to  give 
pleasure  to  your  friend,  you  will  reply  by  this  bearer ;  in  whom 
you  may  trust  as  much  as  I  ask  you  to  trust 

Your  discomfited,  perfect  friend 
M.  R. 

He  answered  coldly,  but  with  great  respect,  and  only 
kept  the  messenger  back  two  days. 


CHAPTER  III 


DESCANT  UPON  A  THEME  AS  OLD  AS  JASON 

It  is  from  Des-Essars  that  I  borrowed  that  similitude  of 
Lord  Bothwell  to  a  violin-player.  The  young  man  pictures 
him  as  such,  at  this  very  time,  sitting  deep  in  his  chair  at 
the  Hermitage,  his  instrument  upon  his  crossed  knee  —  his 
lovely,  sensitive  instrument !  He  screws  at  the  keys,  in 
his  leisurely,  strong  way,  and  now  and  again  plucks  out  a 
chord,  ‘until,  under  the  throbbing  notes,  he  judges  that  he 
hath  wrung  up  his  music  to  the  tragic  pitch.’  The  figure 
is  adroit  in  its  fitness  to  the  persons  involved,  but  puzzling 
in  this  respect  —  that  with  executant  so  deliberate  and 
instrument  so  fine  the  pitch  should  be  so  slow  of  attain¬ 
ment. 

Face  the  facts,  as  she  herself  did  (with  a  shiver  of  self- 
pity),  and  ask  yourself  what  on  earth  he  was  about.  Con¬ 
sider  his  fury  at  her  dismissal  of  the  King,  his  coldness 
through  her  appeals  for  mercy :  what  could  they  point  to 
but  one  thing  ?  ‘  Over  and  over  again,’  says  Des-Essars, 

‘  my  mistress  told  me  that  his  lordship  would  do  nothing 
overt  while  the  King  her  husband  was  alive ;  and  I 
acquiesced  in  silence.  It  was  too  evident.  She  added, 
immediately,  “And  I,  Baptist  —  what  can  I  do?  What 
will  become  of  me  ?  I  cannot  live  without  my  Beloved  — 
nay,  I  cannot  discern  life  or  death  under  the  canopy  of 
Heaven  unless  he  is  there  moving  and  directing  it.  As 
well  ask  me  to  behold  a  vista  of  days  in  which  the  sun 
should  never  shine.  This  is  a  thing  which  forbids  thought, 
for  it  denies  the  wish  to  live.’’  To  such  effect  she  expressed 

381 


382  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  iii 

r 

herself  often,  and  then  would  remain  silent,  as  to  be  sure 
did  I,  each  of  us,  no  doubt,  pondering  the  next  question 
(or  its  answer)  —  What  stood  in  the  way  of  her  happiness  ? 
What  kept  the  King  alive  ?  The  answer  lay  on  the  tip  of 
the  tongue.  She  !  She  only  preserved  the  worthless  life ; 
she  only  stood  in  her  own  light.  Ah,  she  knew  that  well 
enough,  and  so  did  I,  and  so  did  every  man  in  Scotland 
save  one  —  the  blind  upstart  himself. 

‘  A  dangerous  knowledge,  truly :  dangerous  by  reason 
of  the  ease  with  which  she  could  provide  remedy  for  her 
pain.  Let  her  move  a  finger,  let  her  wink  an  eyelid,  shrug 
a  shoulder,  and  from  one  side  or  another  would  come  on  a 
king’s  executioner,  clothed  in  the  livery  of  Justice,  Proper 
Resentment,  Vengeance,  Envy,  Greed  or  Malice — for  under 
one  and  all  of  these  ensigns  he  was  threatened  by  death. 
And  I  will  answer  for  it  that  the  question  flickered  hourly 
in  flame-red  letters  before  her  eyes,  Why  standeth  the 
Queen  of  Scots  in  the  way  of  Justice  ?  O  specious  enemy  ! 
O  reasonable  Satan !  What !  this  fellow,  a  drunkard,  a 
vile  thing,  treacherous,  a  liar,  a  craven  —  this,  whom  to  kill 
were  to  serve  God,  alone  to  shut  her  out  from  good  days? 
I  know  that  her  hand  must  have  itched  to  give  the  signal ; 
I  know  that  the  Devil  prevailed ;  but  not  yet,  not  yet 
awhile  —  not  till  she  was  reeling,  faint,  caught  up,  swirled, 
overwhelmed  by  misery  and  terror.  At  this  time,  though 
suffering  made  her  eyes  gaunt  and  her  mouth  to  grin,  she 
kept  her  hands  rigidly  from  any  sign. 

‘  It  is,  withal,  a  curious  thing,  not  to  be  disregarded  by 
the  judicious,  that  the  Countess  of  Bothwell,  and  her  claims 
and  pretentions,  never  entered  her  thoughts.  In  her 
opinion,  women  —  other  women  —  were  the  toys  of  men. 
This  world  of  ours  she  saw  as  a  garden,  a  flowery  desert 
place  in  which  stood  two  persons,  the  Lover  and  the 
Beloved.  Observe  this,  you  who  read  the  tale  ;  for  pre¬ 
sently  after  my  Lord  Bothwell  observed  it,  and,  by  playing 
upon  it,  attuned  her  to  his  tragic  pitch.’ 

She  left  Jedburgh  on  ioth  November,  her  terrible  be¬ 
leaguering  question  not  yet  answered.  She  went  a  kind 
of  progress  by  the  Tweed  valley,  by  Kelso,  Wark,  Hume, 


CH.  Ill  A  THEME  AS  OLD  AS  JASON  383 


Langton,  Berwick,  stayed  in  the  gaunt  houses  which  are 
still  to  be  seen  fretting  the  ramparts  of  that  lonely  road — • 
towers  reared  upon  woody  bluffs  to  command  all  ways  of 
danger,  square,  turreted  fortresses  looking  keenly  out  upon 
the  bare  lands  which  they  scarcely  called  their  own  and 
had  grown  lean  in  defending.  All  about  her  as  she  went 
were  the  lords,  every  man  of  them  with  his  own  game  in 
his  head,  watching  the  moves  of  every  other.  Argyll  and 
Glencairn  were  shadows  of  Moray ;  Crawfurd  and  Atholl 
for  the  moment  held  with  Huntly  and  the  throne.  Leth- 
ington  was  the  dog  of  whoso  would  throw  him  a  task ; 
Livingstone,  jocular  still,  kept  mostly  with  the  women. 

The  Queen’s  moods,  as  she  journeyed  slowly  through 
that  wintering  country,  changed  as  the  weather  does  in 
late  autumn.  Winds  blow  hot  and  winds  blow  cold, 
tempests  are  never  far  off ;  frost  follows,  when  the  sun 
glitters  but  is  chill,  and  the  ice-splinters  lie  late,  like 
poniards  in  the  ridged  ways.  She  rode  sometimes  for  a 
whole  day  in  bitter  silence,  her  face  as  bleak  as  the  upland 
bents,  and  sometimes  she  spurred  furiously  in  front,  her 
hair  blown  back  and  face  on  fire  with  her  mad  thoughts. 
Unseen  of  any,  she  clenched  her  fists,  she  clenched  her 
teeth.  ‘  I  am  a  queen,  a  queen  !  I  choose  to  do  it.  It  is 
my  right,  it  is  my  need.’ 

She  had  fits  of  uncontrollable  weeping ;  they  caught  her 
unawares  now  and  then,  her  face  all  blurred  with  tears. 
This  was  when  she  had  been  pitying  herself  as  victim  of 
a  new  torment  —  new  at  least  to  her.  ‘  He  sits  alone  with 
a  woman  who  hates  me.  He  pinches  her  chin  —  they  laugh 
together  over  my  letters.  Fool!  I  will  write  no  more.’ 
The  more  a  fool  in  that  she  wrote  within  the  next  hour. 

When  she  grew  frightened  to  find  how  solitary  she  was, 
she  turned  in  the  saddle  more  than  once,  and  hunted  all 
faces  for  a  friendly  one.  Wearisome  quest,  foredoomed  to 
failure !  Moray,  with  his  straight  rock  of  brow,  sat  like  a 
cliff,  looking  steadfastly  before  him ;  Argyll  counted  the 
sheep  on  the  hillside ;  Livingstone,  a  ruddy  old  fool, 
hummed  a  tune,  or  said,  ‘  H’m,  h’m !  All’s  for  the  best 
in  this  braw  world,  come  rain  come  sun.’ 

And  the  maids,  the  Maries,  once  her  bosom  familiars ! 


3§4 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


There  Livingstone  bites  her  prudish  lip,  here  Fleming  peers 
askance  at  Lethington ;  Seton  says  something  sharply 
witty  to  Lady  Argyll,  and  makes  the  grim  lady  hinny  like 
a  mare. 

Far  behind,  in  the  ruck  of  the  cavalcade,  she  may  catch 
sight  of  a  youth  on  a  jennet,  a  pale-faced  youth  with  a 
widish  nose  and  smut-rimmed  light  eyes.  He  has  a 
French  soul;  he  loves  her.  There,  at  least,  is  one  that 
judges  nothing,  condemns  nothing,  approves  nothing.  .  She 
is  she,  and  he  her  slave.  Is  she  angry  ?  —  The  sun’s  hidden 
then.  Does  she  smile  ?  —  The  sun  rises.  Does  she  kiss 
him?  —  Ho!  the  sun  atop  of  summer.  Suppose  that  she 
were  Medea  :  suppose  for  a  moment  that  she  slew  —  no,  no, 
the  term  is  inexact  —  suppose  that  she  stood  aside,  and 
men  justly  offended  came  in  and  slew  King  Jason  ?  This 
slave  of  hers  would  say,  ‘  The  sun,  shining,  hath  struck  one 
to  earth.’ 

Yes,  here  was  a  trusty  friend  who  would  as  soon  blame 
the  sun  for  his  sunstroke,  or  the  lightning  for  his  flash  of 
murder,  as  blame  her.  She  would  call  him  to  her,  then, 
and  make  him  ride  by  her  for  half  a  day.  She  would  take 
his  hand,  lean  aside  to  kiss  him,  to  rest  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  to  stroke  his  cheek ;  she  would  call  him  her  lover, 
her  fere,  her  true  and  perfect  knight  —  fool  him,  in  fine, 
to  the  top  of  his  bent.  And  to  all  that  she  said  or  did, 
Des-Essars,  if  we  may  believe  him,  decently  replied  :  ‘Yes, 
it  is  quite  true  that  I  love  your  Majesty.  I  have  no  other 
thought  but  that,  nor  have  I  ever  had.’ 

Thus  she  rode  progress  towards  her  soul’s  peril,  changing 
from  fierce  heat  to  shrivelling  cold  as  fast  as  the  autumn 
weather. 

It  was  at  Kelso  that  she  got  letters  from  the  King,  foolish 
and  blusterous  letters  in  the  Quos  ego  .  .  .  /  style  which  the 
Master  of  Sempill  admired.  Let  her  Majesty  understand 
his  mind  was  made  up.  Let  her  Majesty  receive  him  in 
Edinburgh,  or  .  .  .  this  was  their  tenor ;  with  them  in  her 
hand  and  one  from  Bothwell  burning  in  her  bosom  she 
showed  Mr.  Secretary  a  disturbed,  dangerous  face.  Pale 
as  she  was  nowadays,  and  thin,  he  was  shocked  to  see  her 
hungry  lines.  He  thought  her  like  some  queen  of  old, 


CH.  Ill  A  THEME  AS  OLD  AS  JASON  385 


Jocasta  or  Althaea,  with  whom  the  Furies  held  midnight 
traffic.  *  Do  you  see  this  ?  Is  it  never  to  end  ?  ’ 

He  did  not  stay  to  peruse  the  letters.  ‘  Madam/  he 
said,  ‘  let  us  take  order  in  these  painful  matters.  Leave 
them  to  your  faithful  friends,  and  all  shall  be  to  your 
contentation.’ 

She  turned  away;  her  staring  eyes  saw  nothing  but 
misery.  ‘  Take  order,  say  you  ?  If  you  fear  so  much  as  to 
speak  above  a  whisper,  how  shall  you  dare  do  anything  ? 
Friends !  what  friend  have  I  but  one  ?  Death  is  my 
patient,  waiting  friend;  and  so  I  shall  prove  him  before 
many  more  days.’ 

‘  Alas,  madam,  speak  not  so  wildly.’ 

She  looked  fiercely,  wrinkling  up  her  eyes  at  him.  ‘  But 
I  tell  you,  sir,  that  if  this  load  be  not  lifted  from  me,  I  shall 
end  it  my  own  way.’ 

That  night  a  plan  was  laid  before  the  Earls  of  Moray 
and  Argyll.  Lethington  spoke  it,  but  Huntly  stood  over 
him  as  stiffly  imminent  as  a  pine,  or  he  had  never  found  a 
word  to  say. 

After  a  great  deal  of  elliptic  talk  he  came  to  terms,  by 
saying,  ‘  The  business  can  be  done  promptly  and  without 
scandalous  parade  of  force.  When  her  Majesty  is  at 
Craigmillar  making  ready  for  the  Prince’s  baptism,  he  will 
certainly  come,  for  he  would  never  endure  to  be  passed 
over  at  such  a  time,  when  the  ambassadors  of  France  and 
England  may  be  brought  to  acknowledge  him.  Well,  then, 
my  lords,  if  we  confront  him  with  our  proofs  of  his  oft- 
meditated  treason  he  will  deny  them.  If  we  essay  to 
apprehend  him  he  will  resist  us ;  and  resistance,  doubtless, 

might  provoke  our  men  to  —  to - •’  Here  he  looked 

about  him. 

‘You  have  said  enough,  Lethington,’  Huntly  broke  in. 
‘We  shall  be  ready,  those  of  us  who  are  true  men.’  He 
watched  Moray  darkly  as  he  spoke, but  drew  forth  no  reply. 
It  was  Argyll  who  took  up  the  talk  —  took  it  .up  to  the 
rafters  as  it  were,  since  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  cast 
up  his  eyes. 

‘  Look  at  him  for  a  Lennox  Stuart,  God  help  us ! 
Lennox  Stuart  and  rank  Papist  he  is.  To  leave  at  large 

2  B 


386 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


the  like  of  that  is  to  have  a  collie  turned  rogue  ranging 
your  hillside.  Why,  gentlemen,’  and  he  looked  from  man 
to  man,  ‘  shall  we  leave  him  to  raven  the  flock  ?  ’ 

‘I  adhere  to  the  plan,’  said  Huntly.  4  Count  upon  me 
and  mine.  I  take  it  you  stand  in  with  us,  my  Lord  of 
Argyll.  What  says  my  Lord  of  Moray  ?  ’ 

The  great  man  became  judicial.  He  gave  them  the 
feeling,  as  he  intended,  that  he  had  been  surveying  a  far 
wider  field  than  they  could  scan.  Under  that  arching  sky, 
which  he  was  able  to  range  in,  and  from  whose  study  they 
had  called  him  down,  their  little  schemes  took  up  that  just 
inch  which  was  their  proper  scope.  If  he  had  not  remarked 
them  earlier,  not  his  the  all-seeing  eye  ;  but  he  was  obliged 
to  his  friends  for  drawing  him  to  the  care  of  matters  so 
curious,  so  well-deserving  of  a  quiet  hour. 

‘  We  must  talk  at  large  of  these  somewhat  serious 
concerns,  my  lords.  We  must  take  our  time,  hasten  so  far 
as  we  may,  but  with  a  temperate  spur  —  ay,  a  temperate 
spur.  We  must  consult,  discriminate  those  who  stand  our 
friends  from  those  who  are  unfriendly ;  from  those  who  cry, 
not  without  reason,  for  recognition.  We  must  not  omit 
those  who  are  afar  off,  nor  those  who  will  come  about  us 
asking  questions  —  what  is  to  be  lost,  what  gained  ?  Many 
considerations  rise  up  on  the  instant,  others  will  crowd 
upon  us.  Where  are  my  lords  of  Crawfurd  and  Atholl? 
Are  they  behind  you  ?  I  cannot  see  them.  What  says  my 
lord  of  Lindsay,  that  very  steadfast  Christian  ?  Where, 
alas,  is  my  lord  of  Morton’s  honour  ?  ’ 

‘Sir,’  cried  Huntly,  fuming,  ‘we  can  resolve  your  many 
questions  when  you  have  answered  our  one.  We  asked 
you  not,  what  says  one  or  what  says  another  ?  but,  rather, 
what  says  your  lordship  ?  ’ 

Lord  Moray  smiled.  ‘  Ah,  my  Lord  Chancellor,  if  your 
lordship  had  not  been  so  long  a  stranger  to  my  poor  house, 
your  question  had  hardly  been  put  to  me.  Those  who 
know  me  best,  my  lord,  do  not  need  to  confirm  by  vain 
assurances  my  love  of  country,  or  desire  to  serve  the  throne 
of  my  dear  sister.  Forgive  me  if  I  say  that,  with  older 
eyes  than  your  lordship’s,  I  take  a  wider  range.  I  see  your 
distresses — perhaps  I  see  a  remedy.  Perhaps  your  proposal 


CH.  Ill  A  THEME  AS  OLD  AS  JASON 


387 


is  one,  perhaps  it  is  a  danger  worse  than  the  disease.  It 
may  be - ’ 

He  threatened  to  become  interminable,  so  Huntly,  with 
no  patience  at  command,  left  him  in  the  midst.  With 
disapproval  in  every  prim  line  of  his  face  Lord  Moray 
watched  him  go.  He  said  nothing  more ;  and  why  should 
he  say  anything,  when  all  was  forwarding  as  he  wished  ? 
He  did  repeat  to  the  Secretary,  afterwards  and  in  private, 
that  it  was  sore  pity  to  have  the  Earl  of  Morton  still  in 
exile  —  a  saying  which  that  worthy  misapprehended. 
But  here  the  Councils  stopped,  though  the  Queen  did  not, 
but  pushed  on  to  Berwick,  and  reached  Edinburgh  by  mid- 
November.  At  Craigmillar,  where  she  chose  to  stay,  they 
were  resumed  under  the  more  hopeful  auspices  of  Lord 
Bothwell,  whom  at  last  she  summoned  to  her  side  out  of 
Liddesdale. 

This  is  because  jealousy,  that  canker  in  the  green-wood, 
was  groping  in  her  now,  though  not,  even  yet,  of  that 
sordid  kind  which  is  concerned  with  its  own  wound.  She 
no  longer  wrote  to  Bothwell  save  on  details  of  business, 
because  she  conceived  her  letters  distasteful  to  him ;  and 
she  would  not  have  recalled  him  had  not  Lethington 
assured  her  of  the  common  need  of  his  counsel.  The  sort 
of  jealousy  she  suffered  filled  her,  rather,  with  a  kind  of  noble 
zeal  to  do  him  honour.  Although  she  would  not  write  to 
him,  she  could  never  rest  without  news  of  his  daily  doings. 
So  when  she  heard  that  he  and  his  Countess  were  reading 
Petrarch  together,  many  hurt  lines,  but  no  vulgar  splenetic 
lines,  were  committed  to  the  casket. 

Elle  pour  son  honneur  vous  doibt  obeyssance, 

Moy  vous  obeyssant  j’en  puis  recevoir  blasme, 

N’estant,  h.  mon  regret,  comme  elle,  vostre  femme. 

She  wrote,  and  believed,  that  she  grudged  Lady  Bothwell 
nothing : 

Je  ne  la  play  ns  d’aymer  done  ardamment 
Celuy  qui  n’a  en  sens,  ny  en  vaillance, 

En  beauts,  en  bont£,  ny  en  Constance 
Point  de  seconde.  Je  vis  en  ceste  foy. 

‘God  pity  this  poor  lady!’  Des-Essars  bursts  forth, 


388 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


having  been  imparted  these  outrageous  lines.  ‘  She  who 
could  believe  that  my  Lord  Bothwell  was  without  peer  in 
beauty,  kindness,  and  constancy,  might  very  well  believe 
that  she  herself  was  not  jealous  of  his  wife.’  * 

Jealous  or  no,  it  was  jealousy  of  a  strange  kind.  When 
her  beloved  answered  his  summons  by  attending  her  at 
Craigmillar,  she  received  him  with  a  dewy  gratefulness 
which  went  near  to  touch  him.  ‘You  have  come,  then! 
Oh,  but  you  are  good  to  your  friend,’  —  a  speech  which  for 
the  moment  bereft  him  of  speech.  She  asked  after  the 
Countess,  spoke  of  her  as  her  sister,  pitied  her  sitting  alone 
at  Hermitage,  and  inspired  the  gross-minded  man  with 
enthusiasm  for  her  exalted  mood. 

He  threw  himself  into  the  plotting  and  whispering  with 
which  the  Court  was  rife,  talked  long  hours  with  Lethington, 
was  civil  to  Moray  and  his  ‘  flock,’  as  he  called  Argyll  and 
the  rest.  Nothing  much  came  of  it  all.  Moray  went  so 
far  as  to  suggest  divorce.  Lethington  thought  much  of  it, 
and  carried  it  to  Bothwell,  who  thought  nothing  of  it.  He 
declined  to  discuss  it  with  her  Majesty. 

‘  Take  your  proposal  to  her  if  you  choose,’  he  said ;  ‘lay 
it  before  her.  I  know  what  she  will  say,  and  agree  with 
her  beforehand.  This  is  no  way  of  doing  for  men,  or  for 
crowned  women.’ 

He  had  the  rights  of  it.  ‘  What !  ’  she  cried,  ‘  and  make 
my  son  a  bastard  !  And  he  to  be  King  of  England !  I 
think  they  have  had  bastards  enough  on  that  throne.  Your 
plan  is  foolish.’ 

Lethington  was  upon  his  mettle.  He  was  to  be  married 
come  Christmas,  and,  indebted  for  this  prospect  to  the 
Queen  and  Bothwell,  was  desirous  to  owe  her  as  much 
more  as  she  would  lend  him.  ‘  Madam,’  he  said,  ‘  I  cannot 
admit  my  plan  to  be  so  dangerous  to  the  Prince’s  highness; 
but  I  will  content  you  yet.  Give  me  leave  to  devise  yet 
once  more.’ 

‘  Devise  as  you  will,  sir,’  said  she,  ‘  but  be  quick,  or  I 
shall  begin  with  devices  of  my  own.  You  know  that  a 
foumart  in  a  trap  scruples  not  to  use  tooth  and  claw.  And 
he  is  wise,  since  soft  glances  are  never  likely  to  help  him.’ 
Almost  immediately  she  began  to  cry  at  the  thought  of 


CH.  Ill  A  THEME  AS  OLD  AS  JASON  389 


herself  in  a  trap,  ‘to  cry  and  torment  herself,’  says  the 
annalist.  And  one  night,  at  supper  with  a  few  of  them, 
she  lashed  out  in  a  fury  at  her  impotence.  ‘  Ah,  it  is  too 
much,  what  I  suffer  among  you  all !  I  have  borne  him  a 
son,  and  he  would  steal  him  from  my  breast.  He  would 
tip  that  innocent  tongue  with  poison  that  he  may  envenom 
his  mother.  If  I  am  not  soon  quit  of  this  there  is  but  one 
end  to  it.’ 

Patience,  they  counselled.  ‘  Ay,  madam,’  said  foolish 
old  Livingstone,  ‘  patience,  and  shuffle  the  cards.’ 

‘  Shuffle  you  yours,  my  lord,’  she  said,  looking  lofty,  ‘  if 
you  think  them  worthy  of  Fortune’s  second  thoughts.  For 
me,  I  know  a  shorter  way  to  end  the  game.’ 

In  private,  she  and  Bothwell  were  in  full  accord.  She 
was  to  obey  him,  and  leave  him  alone.  ‘  No  questions,  my 
soul!’  he  was  for  ever  saying  to  her,  half  jocularly,  half 
with  meaning  that  she  was  to  be  blind,  deaf,  and  dumb. 
She  shut  her  eyes  and  mouth  and  put  her  fingers  to  her 
ears ;  and  in  time  this  became  a  habit.  ‘  My  prince,  my 
master,’  she  said  once,  and  gave  him  both  her  hands,  ‘  I  am 
your  servant,  and  submit  to  you  in  all  things.  Use  me 
well.’  He  kissed  her  fondly  as  he  swore  that  so  he  would. 

It  was  after  the  King  had  visited  her  and  gone  again, 
whither  no  one  knew,  that  Lethington  produced  his  second 
plan.  As  before,  he  was  careful  to  submit  it  to  Bothwell. 
What  did  his  good  lordship  think  of  this  ?  The  King  was 
to  meet  her  Majesty  at  Stirling  for  the  Prince’s  baptism ; 
he  would  be  ill  received  by  the  ambassadors,  and  therefore 
mutinous,  probably  with  outcry.  Let  one  then,  with  all 
proofs  in  his  hands,  indict  him  of  treason.  Let  him  be 
summoned  to  answer,  and  upon  refusal,  arrested.  He 
would  certainly  resist,  with  violence.  The  end  was  sure. 
Now,  what  did  his  good  lordship  think  ? 

His  good  lordship  spoke  his  plain  mind,  as  he  always 
did  to  Lethington,  whom  he  scorned.  ‘You  don’t  kill  a 
sheep  with  hounds  and  horn.  Pray,  my  friend,  where  will 
be  my  lord  of  Moray  all  this  while  ?  Will  he  wind  the 
horn  ?  I  do  not  remember  that  that  is  his  way.  Or  will 
he  find  occasions  to  be  in  his  lands  ?  Or  turn  his  coat  and 
cry,  God  bless  our  King-Consort  and  the  True  Kirk  ?  ’ 


390 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


Lethington  had  a  late  autumnal  smile,  with  teeth  show¬ 
ing  through  like  the  first  frost.  ‘  I  will  tell  your  lordship 
what  he  will  do.  He  will  see  and  not  see.  He  will  look 
on  and  not  behold.’ 

‘You  mean,  I  gather,  that  he  will  be  at  his  prayers, 
looking  through  his  fingers  while  we  foul  ours  ?  ’ 

‘Your  lordship  is  most  precise.’ 

However,  his  plan  went  before  the  Queen,  who  gave  it 
a  gloomy  approval.  ‘  He  is  so  clogged  with  treason,  he 
will  never  run.  You  will  have  an  easy  capture.  Let 
nothing  be  done  till  my  son  be  christened.’ 

Immediately  afterwards  she  was  instructed  by  Bothwell 
that  the  project  was  as  vain  as  wind,  because  it  depended 
upon  two  unstable  things.  First,  if  he  allowed  himself  to 
be  taken,  what  on  earth  was  to  be  done  with  him  ?  There 
must  be  an  assize.  And  to  which  side  in  that  would 
Moray  lean  ? 

She  could  not  answer  him. 

‘No,’  said  he,  ‘you  cannot;  nor  can  any  man  in 
Scotland.’ 

‘  I  am  of  your  mind,’  she  said  —  superfluous  assurance  ! 

‘Well,  then,’  he  went  on,  ‘let  them  stir  their  broth  of 
grouts.  They  are  all  greedy  knaves  together :  perchance 
one  or  another  will  tumble  into  the  stew  and  we  be  quit 
of  him.’ 

‘  But  if  we  leave  them,’  she  hesitated,  ‘  they  may  attempt 
to  take  him  —  and  then - ’ 

Bothwell  laughed.  ‘Nay,  I  will  see  to  it  that  they  do 
not.  Oh,  madam,  trust  your  honest  lover,  and  all  shall  go 
greatly  for  you  and  me.’ 

She  threw  herself  into  his  arms.  Trust  him !  O  God, 
had  she  not  found  a  man  at  last  ? 

When  they  all  met  at  Stirling  to  christen  the  Prince, 
the  King  was  so  ill  received  that,  as  Lethington  had 
expected,  he  refused  to  leave  his  lodging  even  for  the 
ceremony.  He  was  literally  alone,  without  his  father, 
without  any  Scots  lord  to  his  name ;  sitting  for  the  most 
part  in  a  small  room,  drinking  and  playing  cards.  He 
used  to  ride  out  at  night  so  that  he  need  not  tempt  the 


CH.  Ill  A  THEME  AS  OLD  AS  JASON 


39i 


discourtesy  of  the  wayfarers ;  and  once,  when  the  guard  at 
the  gate  hesitated  about  passing  him  in,  he  flew  into  a 
tempest  of  rage,  drew,  and  killed  the  man  on  the  spot. 
Lethington  flew  from  lord  to  lord.  What  better  oppor¬ 
tunity  than  this  ? 

Everything  was  prepared,  all  the  proofs  gathered  in. 
There  were  letters  of  his  to  the  Queen-Mother  of  France, 
to  his  own  mother,  Lady  Lennox,  to  the  English  Catholics, 
to  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  to  certain  Jesuits  in  the  West. 
One  Highgate  brought  intercepted  papers  —  a  chart  of 
Scilly,  a  plan  of  Scarborough  Castle :  and  some  other 
fellow  was  fished  up,  a  bladder  full  of  whispers  of  a  plot 
to  steal  the  Prince.  Lastly,  to  crown  the  image  of  a  perfect 
traitor,  there  was  a  draft  proclamation  of  himself  as  Regent 
of  Scotland.  Enough  here  to  hang  a  better  man  ! 

‘Well,’  said  Huntly,  when  Lethington  showed  him  the 
whole  budget,  ‘take  your  measures,  show  me  my  place, 
and  meet  me  at  your  own  time.  I’ll  not  fail  you.’ 

That  night  Lord  Bothwell  came  into  the  Queen’s 
chamber  while  she  was  at  her  prayers.  She  saw  him,  but 
pretended  that  she  did  not,  finished  her  rosary,  and  bowed 
her  head  over  it ;  then  got  up  and  kissed  him  before  all 
her  circle.  Very  soon  they  were  alone  together. 

‘  I  disturbed  you,’  he  said ;  ‘  I  regret  it.’ 

‘  Regret  it  not  —  it  was  sweet  disturbance.  My  heart 
flew  faster  than  my  beads.’ 

He  took  her  hand  up.  ‘Why  do  you  tell  me  such 
things  ?  Do  you  know  what  disorder  they  work  in  me?  ’ 

She  pretended  that  she  must  disengage  her  hand,  but 
he  would  not  allow  it. 

‘  Alas,  sir,’  she  said,  ‘  we  whip  each  other,  you  and  I. 
Each  is  a  torment  to  the  other.  One  runs,  the  other 
chases,  —  but  whither  ?  ’ 

‘  Quick,  quick  to  the  goal !  ’ 

‘  Take  me  thither  in  your  arms,  my  Bothwell.  Carry 
me,  lest  I  faint  by  the  way.’ 

‘  No  fainting  now.  The  hour  is  come,  and  I  with  it.  I 
have  counsel  for  you.’ 

‘Counsel  me  —  I  will  be  faithful.’ 

‘  I  recommend,  then,  to  your  clemency  the  Earl  of 


392  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  hi 

Morton,  his  kinsman  Douglas  of  Whittinghame,  and  all 
their  factions.’ 

She  pondered  the  saying,  not  discerning  at  first  what  it 
purported,  yet  fearing  to  ask  him  lest  he  should  be  impa¬ 
tient  of  her  stupidity.  No  man  had  ever  made  her  feel 
stupid  but  this  one. 

‘  Do  you  wish  it  ?  ’  she  asked  him. 

‘  I  advise  it.’ 

‘  They  are  no  friends  of  yours  ?  ’ 

‘They  may  become  so.’ 

‘  And  you  remember  that  they  greatly  offended  me  ?  * 

‘  Oh,  madam,’  he  cried  out  irritably,  ‘  who  has  not 
offended  you  in  this  wicked  land?  Did  not  your  sour 
brother  offend  you  ?  Has  not  Lethington  offended  ?  Have 
not  Huntly  and  I  ?  Believe  me,  this  Morton  has  himself 
been  offended,  and  by  the  very  man  who  has  offended  you 
more  vilely  than  any  other.  There  was  one  who  betrayed 
you  to  the  Douglases,  but  that  same  man  betrayed  the 
Douglases  to  you.  Therefore  I  say,  if  you  wish  to  redeem 
your  honour,  let  Morton  redeem  his,  and  your  affair  is 
done.  You  force  me  to  speak  plainly.’ 

She  saw  his  meaning  now,  and  her  eyes  grew  blank 
with  fear.  ‘Hush,’  she  said,  ‘speak  no  plainer.  Those 
two  will  kill  him.’ 

He  shrugged.  ‘  You  speak  plainer  than  I.  In  advising 
you,  however,  to  send  open  letters  of  pardon  to  Morton 
and  his  cousin,  I  have  but  done  my  duty,  as  we  had  agreed 
it  should  be.  But  it  is  for  your  Majesty  to  follow  or  to 
leave,  as  you  will.  I  am  still  the  servant.’ 

She  went  slowly  to  him,  took  up  his  hands  and  put  them 
on  her  shoulders.  He  let  her  have  the  weight.  ‘Now  I 
feel  your  strong  hands,  Bothwell.’ 

‘  It  is  you  that  put  them  there.’ 

‘  It  is  where  they  should  be.  Servants  use  not  so  their 
hands,  but  only  masters.  And  good  servants  soon  grow 
to  love  the  yoke.’  Suddenly  she  dropped  to  his  feet  and 
embraced  his  knees.  ‘  I  am  yours,  I  am  yours !  Do  as 
you  will  with  me  and  all.’ 

Open  letters  were  despatched  to  Lord  Morton  and  Mr. 
Archie  Douglas,  that,  on  certain  terms,  they  and  their 


CH.  Ill  A  THEME  AS  OLD  AS  JASON 


393 


factions  might  gain  pardon  and  remission  of  forfeitures. 
On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  the  King  left  Stirling 
without  any  farewells  and  sped  to  Glasgow. 

Lethington,  completely  fooled,  ran  open-mouthed  to 
Bothwell.  ‘  Here  is  a  discomfiture,  my  lord  !  I  am  dumb¬ 
founded.  Just  when  we  were  sure  of  him.’ 

‘  Maybe  you  were  too  sure.  There  will  be  a  vent-hole 
in  your  body  politic.’ 

‘  My  lord,  I  can  answer  for  the  entirety  of  it.  Tush,  my 
credit  is  gone !  I  am  vexed  to  death.’ 

‘  I  see  that  it  puts  you  out.  But  courage,  man !  you 
will  find  a  way  yet.’ 

‘  If  I  find  one  now,  after  this  rebuff,  it  will  be  owing  to 
your  lordship’s  good  opinion,’  said  the  guileless  Lethington  : 
‘  a  sharp  spur  to  me,  I  do  assure  you.’ 

Bothwell  took  him  by  the  arm.  ‘  Do  you  feel  so  sure,’ 
he  asked  him,  ‘  that  our  man  hath  not  had  a  fright  ?  ’ 

‘What  fright?  Not  possible  —  or  I  am  not  up  with 
your  lordship.’ 

Bothwell  half-closed  his  eyes.  ‘  How  do  you  suppose  he 
would  look  upon  the  return  of  Morton  and  the  Douglases  ?  ’ 

Lethington  started,  then  stared  at  the  floor.  ‘  Ay,’  he 
said  —  ‘  ay  !  I  had  not  given  that  a  thought.  Man,  Lord 
Bothwell,’  he  whispered,  ‘yon’s  his  death-warrant,  and  he 
knows  it.’ 

Lord  Bothwell  clacked  his  tongue. 


CHAPTER  IV 


SHE  LOOKS  BACK  ONCE 

Just  at  this  point  in  the  story  Des-Essars  confesses  to  the 
desire  having  been  hot  within  him  to  assassinate  the  Earl 
of  Bothwell ;  and  writing  it  down  when  the  opportunity 
had  come  and  was  gone,  he  may  well  say,  ‘  What  would 
have  been  the  pain  and  loss  of  dear  blood,  had  I  done  it, 
in  comparison  to  present  anguish  ?  ’  He  is,  however,  forced 
to  admit  that  he  did  not  meditate  so  violent  a  deed  for  the 
sake  of  avoiding  future  disaster,  but  rather  to  make  the 
present  more  tolerable.  It  was  his  lot  to  be  much  with 
the  Queen  and  her  chosen  lover ;  he  owns  that  he  found 
the  constant  fret  of  their  intercourse  almost  impossible  to 
be  borne.  ‘I  declare  before  God  and  the  angels/  he  says, 
‘ that  her  dreadful  lavishing  of  herself  during  these  weeks 
of  waste  and  desire  caused  my  heart  to  bleed.  She  stripped 
herself  bare  of  every  grace  of  mind,  spirit,  and  person,  and 
strewed  it  in  his  way,  heaping  one  upon  another  until  he 
seemed  to  be  wading  knee-deep  in  her  charms.  Nav,  but 
he  wallowed  in  them  like  a  brute-beast,  unrecognising  and 
unthankful  — a  state  of  affairs  unparalleled  since  Galahad 
(who  was  a  good  knight)  lay  abed  and  was  nourished  upon 
the  blood  of  a  king’s  virgin  daughter.  How  different  this 
knight  from  that,  let  these  pages  declare ;  and  my  mis¬ 
tress’s  high  mind,  how  similar  to  that  spendingmartyr’s.  For 
it  is  most  certain  that  all  her  acts  towards  the  Lord  Both¬ 
well  were  moved  by  magnanimity.  Stripping  herself  nobly, 
she  stood  the  more  noble  for  her  nakedness.  She  suffered 
horribly  .*  his  the  horrible  sin.  Love  —  in  the  great  manner 

394 


CH.  IV 


SHE  LOOKS  BACK  ONCE 


395 


°f  it  —  should  be  a  conflict  of  generosity;  either  lover  should 
be  emulous  of  pain  and  loss.  But  here  she  gave  and  this 
accursed  butcher  took  ;  she  spent  and  he  got. 

*  I  saw  them  together  at  their  various  houses  of  sojourn 
during  this  winter:  at  Drymen  in  Perth,  a  house  of  my 
Lord  Drummond’s;  at  Tullibardine,  at  Callander,  and 
again  in  Edinburgh.  Little  joy  had  they  of  each  other, 
God  wot !  There  are  two  kinds  of  lovers’  joys,  as  I  think 
—  the  mellow  and  the  sharp.  The  one  is  rooted  in  the 
heart  and  the  other  in  the  sense,  but  both  alike  need  leisure 
of  mind  if  they  are  to  bear  fruit ;  for  in  the  contemplation 
of  our  happiness  lies  the  greatest  happiness  of  all.  Now, 
these  two  were  never  at  rest ;  they  could  never  look  upon 
each  other  and  let  the  eyes  dwell  there  with  the  thought, 
My  Beloved  is  mine  and  lam  his ,  and  as  it  is  now  so  it 
shall  be.  No,  but  they  looked  beyond  each  other  through 
a  tangle  of  sin  and  error,  searching  until  their  eyeballs 
ached  if  haply  they  might  discover  a  gleam  beyond  of  that 
windless  garden  of  the  Hesperides  wherein  was  put  their 
hope.  Fond  searching,  fond  hope!  they  could  never  win 
the  garden.  Her  desires  were  boundless,  unappeasable, 
and  so  were  his  ;  for  she  sought  to  be  perfect  slave  and  he 
to  be  absolute  master.  And  how  was  she  to  be  his  servant, 
who  was  born  a  queen  ?  and  how  he  the  master  he  sought 
to  be,  when  no  empire  the  world  ever  saw  would  have  con¬ 
tented  him  ?  But  the  greatest  bar  of  severance  between 
them  was  this  :  there  was  no  community  of  interest  possible 
between  them.  For,  to  her,  this  Bothwell  was  the  only 
End ;  and  to  him  this  fair  sweet  Queen  was  only  a  Means. 
This  is  a  pregnant  oracle  of  mine,  worth  your  travail. 
Perpend  it,  you  who  read.’ 

Des-Essars  did  not  believe  that  Lord  Bothwell  loved 
the  Queen.  He  had  been  often  at  Hermitage,  you  must 
remember,  and  seen  the  Earl  and  Countess  together.  My 
lord  was  not  regardful  of  bystanders  when  he  chose  to 
fondle  his  handsome  wife.  When  the  two  were  separated, 
as  now  they  were,  the  observant  young  man  was  aware 
that  they  wrote  frequently  to  each  other :  French  Paris 
was  for  ever  coming  and  going  between  Liddesdale  and 
his  master’s  lodging,  wherever  that  might  chance  to  be. 


396 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


He  was  certain,  too,  that  the  Queen  knew  it.  *  Paris  used 
to  deliver  to  my  lord  his  wife’s  letters,  and  he  read  them  in 
the  Queen’s  very  presence,  with  scarce  a  “By  your  leave, 
ma’am  ”  ;  and  at  such  times  I  have  seen  her  Majesty  pace 
about  the  garden  in  great  misery,  pull  at  the  rowan  berries 
until  she  scattered  them,  pluck  at  the  branches  of  trees  and 
send  the  dry  leaves  flying;  and  once  —  as  I  shall  never 
forget  —  she  thrust  her  hand  and  bare  arm  into  a  thicket  of 
nettles,  and  when  she  drew  it  out  it  was  all  red  to  the 
elbow,  with  sore  white  blotches  upon  it  where  the  poison 
had  boiled  the  blood.  Her  arm  went  stiff  afterwards,  but 
she  never  let  him  know  the  reason.’ 

After  the  christening,  about  Christmas-time,  the  Earl  of 
Morton  and  his  friends  came  home  to  Scotland,  were  intro¬ 
duced  into  the  Queen’s  presence  by  the  Earls  of  Bothwell 
and  Huntly,  and  upon  submission  (and  their  knees)  restored 
to  their  former  estates.  She  had  nothing  to  say  to  them, 
but  sat  like  one  entranced,  looking  fixedly  at  the  floor 
while  Bothwell  made  his  speech,  and  Morton  after  him,  in 
his  bluff  way,  expressed  his  contrition  and  desire  to  be  of 
service  in  the  future.  Mr.  Archie  Douglas,  one  of  a  crowd 
of  repentant  rebels,  contented  himself  with  cheering.  ‘  God 
save  your  Majesty !  ’  was  his  cry,  and  ‘  Confusion  to  all 
your  enemies !  ’  whereupon  my  Lord  Morton  bethought 
him  of  the  real  occasion  of  his  recall,  and  added  to  his 
speech  a  few  words  more. 

‘  Oh,  ay  !  ’  he  said :  ‘  by  our  fruits  you  shall  judge  us, 
madam,  whether  we  be  gratefully  replanted  in  this  dear 
soil  or  no.  Try  us,  madam,  upon  whomsoever  hath 
aggrieved  you,  or  endangered  your  throne,  or  the  thrones 
of  them  that  are  to  follow  you  —  try  us,  I  say,  and  see 
whether  our  appetities  to  serve  you  are  not  whetted  by  our 
long  absence.’ 

She  had  started  and  looked  hastily  at  Bothwell,  — 
evidently  she  was  frightened.  Her  lips  moved  for  some 
time  before  any  sound  came  forth  from  them,  but  presently 
she  said  that  she  should  not  fail  to  call  for  service  in  the 
field  when  she  required  it.  ‘  But  the  realm  is  now  at 
peace,’  she  added,  ‘  and  I  hope  will  remain  so.’ 


CH.  IV 


SHE  LOOKS  BACK  ONCE 


397 


Morton  said:  ‘Amen  to  that.  Yet  be  prepared,  madam, 
as  the  sailors  are,  when  they  lie  becalmed  upon  a  sea  like 
oil,  but  see  a  brown  haze  hang  where  sky  and  water  meet. 
And,  madam,  trust  yourself  to  them  that  are  weatherwise 
in  this  country.’ 

She  stammered.  ‘  I  know  not  what  you  need  fear  for 
me — I  hardly  understand.  I  am  very  well  served — very  well 
advised  —  but  I  thank  you  for  your  friendly  warning.  .  .  / 
She  forced  herself  to  speak,  but  could  not  make  a  coherent 
sentence.  Bothwell  intervened,  and  presently  took  away 
his  new  friends. 

Lord  Morton  went  to  the  Douglas  house  of  Whittinge¬ 
hame,  a  leafy  place  in  Haddington,  not  far  from  the  sea. 
Thither  in  the  first  days  of  January  repaired  Bothwell  and 
Huntly,  while  the  Queen  stayed  in  Edinburgh,  friendless, 
except  for  Des-Essars  and  Mary  Seton.  She  passed  her 
days  like  one  in  a  dream,  speaking  seldom,  kneeling  at 
altars  but  not  praying,  negligent  of  her  surroundings, 
sometimes  of  her  person,  only  alert  when  a  messenger 
might  be  looked  for  with  a  letter.  Often  found  in  tears, 
either  she  could  not  or  she  would  not  account  for  them. 
One  day  she  bade  Des-Essars  go  with  her  letter-carriers  to 
Whittingehame.  ‘  What  would  you  have  me  do  there, 
madam  ?  ’  he  asked. 

She  played  drearily  with  his  sword-strap.  ‘  Do  ?  What 
do  spies  in  general?  See  —  judge  for  yourself  —  look 
through  my  eyes  if  you  can.’ 

He  turned  to  go,  and  she  caught  at  his  arm.  ‘  Baptist/ 
she  said,  ‘  I  am  in  the  dark,  and  horribly  afraid.  Look 
you,  I  know  not  what  they  are  doing  there  together.  They 
whisper  and  wink  and  nod  at  each  other;  they  say  little 
and  mean  much.  I  cannot  divine  what  they  intend  —  or 
what  they  will  presently  ask  me  to  do.  I  saw  Archie 
Douglas  grin  like  a  wolf  that  day  he  was  here  —  I  know  not 
what  he  grinned  at.  They  tell  me  nothing  —  nothing!  Do 
not  suppose  but  that  I  trust  my  lord ;  but,  Baptist,  find 
out  something.  I  need  courage.’  She  lay  back  exhausted, 
and  when  he  came  to  her  waved  him  off,  whispering  that 
he  was  to  be  quick  and  go. 

He  departed,  reached  Whittingehame  within  the  day, 


398 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  IIJ 


saw  what  he  could  —  which  was  precisely  nothing,  for  Lord 
Bothwell  was  away  and  Lord  Morton  not  visible  —  and  on 
his  road  home  again  heard  that  the  King  lay  dangerously 
ill  at  Glasgow,  of  smallpox  or  worse.  He  took  that  news 
in  his  pocket,  and  none  that  he  could  have  gleaned  from 
the  whispers  of  Whittingehame  could  have  had  effect  so 
surprising.  For  the  first  time  for  many  a  month  he  saw 
his  Queen  sane,  sweet,  crying  woman.  She  fell  on  her 
knees,  hiding  her  face  in  his  sleeve,  and  gave  thanks  to 
God.  When  she  rose  up  and  went  back  to  her  chair  he 
saw  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  asked  him  no  further  of 
bothwell  and  Morton  at  their  secrets,  or  of  Archie’s  grins. 
When  he  came  and  knelt  before  her  she  took  his  face  in 
her  hands  and  kissed  it.  ‘  God  hath  saved  me,  my  dear, 
and  by  you,’  she  said.  ‘  He  hath  heard  my  prayers.  I  am 
sure  now  that  I  shall  find  mercy.  O  fortunate  messenger ! 
O  happy  soul,  whom  thou  hast  redeemed !  ’ 

‘  Madam,’  he  said  eagerly,  seeing  now  why  she  was 
so  thankful,  ‘let  me  go  to  Glasgow.  You  cannot  other¬ 
wise  be  sure  of  this  report.  The  King  may  be  ill, 

and  yet  not  mortally.  Let  us  be  sure  before  we  give 
thanks.’ 

She  was  crying  freely.  ‘  I  have  not  deserved  so  great  a 
mercy,  God  knoweth.  I  have  been  near  to  deadly  sin. 
\  es,  yes  go,  Baptist.  Go  at  once,  and  return  with  speed.’ 
It  was  settled  that  he  should  take  with  him  her  physician 
and  a  message  of  excuse  that  business  kept  her  from  him. 
He  went  to  prepare  himself ;  she  to  write  to  Bothwell  a 
brave  and  hopeful  letter  concerning  this  streak  of  blue  in 
her  storm-packed  sky.  Before  dark  Des-Essars  was  away 
on  a  fresh  horse. 

Up  from  Whittingehame  in  a  day  or  two  came  Mr. 
Secretary  Lethington,  very  busy ;  and  had  private  speech 
with  the  Queen,  reporting  the  councils  of  her  friends  down 
there.  She  listened  idly  to  his  urgings  of  this  and  that. 
What  interest  had  she  now  in  plots  woven  under  yew  trees 
or  in  panelled  chambers,  when  high  Heaven  itself  had 
declared  for  her  quarrel?  Did  Archie  grin  like  a  wolf, 
Morton  flush  and  handle  his  dagger  ?  Let  them  —  let  them  ! 


CH.  IV 


SHE  LOOKS  BACK  ONCE 


399 


An  angel  with  a  flaming  sword  stood  on  the  house-roof  at 
Glasgow,  and  their  little  rages  were  nought. 

At  the  end  of  his  circuitous  oration  —  ‘  Well,  have  you 
ended  ?  ’  she  asked  him. 

‘  Madam,  I  have  no  more  to  say.’ 

She  took  a  scrap  of  paper  and  scribbled  on  it  with  a 
pen.  ‘  Read  that,  if  you  please,  and  take  it  with  you  back 
again.’ 

‘  Show  to  the  Earl  of  Morton ,’  he  read,  ‘  that  the  Queen 
will  hear  no  speech  of  the  matter  arranged  with  him l 

Bothwell  laughed  to  see  the  dropped  jaws,  aghast  at 
this  rebuff.  But  she,  confident  in  the  help  of  high  Heaven 
—  which  had  plucked  her,  as  she  said,  from  the  brink  of 
the  pit — had  recovered  all  her  audacity.  And  so  she  waited, 
almost  happy  again,  for  the  return  of  her  messenger. 

Des-Essars  was  gone  for  more  than  a  week ;  it  was  not 
until  the  ninth  day  from  his  departure  that  he  brought 
back  his  report.  I  know  not  what  she  had  expected  — 
some  miraculous  dealing  or  another  by  which  God  was 
to  signify  that  she  was  set  free  to  follow  her  desires ; 
but  whatever  it  was,  the  young  Brabanter  could  not  end 
her  suspense.  So  far  as  the  doctors  could  judge,  the 
King’s  illness  might  be  sweated  out  of  him  :  they  were 
trying  that  when  he  left.  The  fever  must  run  its  course ; 
no  one  could  say  that  it  must  needs  end  fatally.  Her 
Majesty  was  to  hope,  said  the  doctors  ;  and  so  said  Des- 
Essars,  giving  the  word  a  twist  round.  To  hope!  She 
was  worn  thin  with  hoping. 

The  King  was  horrible,  he  told  her,  and  wore  a  taffeta 
mask.  He  was  peevish,  but  not  furious  ;  had  not  enough 
strength  left  him  for  that.  He  lay  and  snapped  at  all  who 
came  near  him,  harmlessly,  like  a  snake  robbed  of  its  fang. 
The  light  hurt  his  eyes,  so  he  lay  in  the  dark ;  but,  being 
extremely  curious  about  himself,  he  had  a  candle  burning 
constantly  beside  him,  and  a  hand-glass  on  the  bed,  in 
which  he  was  always  looking  at  his  face :  a  sign  of  morbid 
affection  of  the  brain,  the  doctors  considered.  The  Queen 
said  carelessly,  ‘  Why,  what  else  hath  he  ever  cared  for  in 
life  but  his  own  person  ?  ’ 


400 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


She  asked  what  he  had  replied  to  her  message  of  excuse. 
Des-Essars,  who  had  not  been  allowed  to  talk  with  him, 
and  had  only  seen  what  he  did  see  when  the  sick  man 
slept,  had  delivered  it  by  Standen.  Through  Standen 
also  came  the  answer.  The  King’s  words  were,  ‘This 
much  you  shall  say  to  the  Queen:  that  I  wish  Stirling 
were  Jedburgh,  and  Glasgow  the  Hermitage,  and  I  the 
Earl  of  Bothwell  as  I  lie  here ;  and  then  I  doubt  not  but 
she  would  be  quickly  with  me  undesired.’ 

She  flushed,  but  not  with  shame.  ‘  Doth  he  think  me 
at  Stirling  ?  He  is  out  there  ;  but  otherwise,  my  dear,  he 
is  right  enough.’  She  turned  away  with  a  sigh.  ‘Well, 
what  can  I  do  but  wait  ?  ’  She  was  not  allowed  to  wait 
long. 

Bothwell  came  to  see  her,  and  stayed  till  near  midnight 
in  secret  talk.  It  was  wild  and  snowy,  much  like  that 
night,  as  Des-Essars  remembered,  in  which  Davy  had  been 
slain,  near  a  year  ago ;  one  of  those  nights  when  the  mind, 
unhappy,  and  querulous,  calls  up  every  nerve  to  the  ex¬ 
treme  point  of  tension.  The  young  man,  apprehensive  of 
any  and  every  evil,  kept  the  watch.  He  heard  the  door 
shut,  Bothwell’s  step  in  the  corridor;  he  flew  to  the  ante¬ 
chamber,  hoping  that  she  might  send  for  him.  But 
though  he  waited  there  an  hour  or  more  in  miserable 
suspense,  neither  daring  to  show  himself  nor  to  leave  the 
place,  he  heard  nothing.  Between  two  and  three  o’clock  in 
the  morning  he  fell  asleep  over  the  table,  wrapped  in  his 
cloak.  As  once  before,  she  came  in,  a  candle  in  her  hand, 
and  awoke  him  by  touching  his  head. 

He  sprang  up,  broad  awake  in  an  instant;  he  saw  her. 
Oh,  your  face  !  ’  he  cried  out.  ‘  Haunted  !  haunted  !  ’ 
It  was  a  face  all  grey,  and  as  still  as  marble  save  for  the 
looming  eyes. 

‘You  sleep,’. she  said,  ‘but  I  keep  vigil.  Bid  me  good¬ 
bye.  I  am  going  away.’ 

He  said,  ‘  Where  you  go,  I  go.  I  dare  not  leave  you  as 
now  you  are.’ 

She  was  in  a  stare.  ‘  I  am  going  to  the  King.’ 

‘To  the  King!’  It  horrified  him.  ‘You  —  alone?’ 

‘I  am  sent :  I  must  go.’ 


CH.  IV 


SHE  LOOKS  BACK  ONCE 


401 


‘  I  go  with  you.’ 

She  shook  her  head.  *  You  cannot.  What  I  do  I 

must  do  myself.  Now  bid  me  good  speed  upon  my 
journey.’  J 

He  folded  his  arms.  ‘  I  think  I  will  not.  I  think  the 

best  wish  I  could  make  for  you  would  be  that  you  should 
die.’ 

This  she  did  not  deny ;  but  said  she  :  ‘Vain  wishing  !  I 
know  that  I  shall  not  die  until  my  lord  has  made  me  his. 
After  that  it  had  better  be  soon.’ 

He  asked  her,  with  trembling  voice,  what  she  wanted 
with  the  King ;  for  he  verily  thought  that  she  was  going 
there  for  one  dreadful  purpose.  She  avoided  the  question. 
The  King  had  been  asking  for  her,  she  said,  and  it  was  her 
duty  to  obey  him.  ‘  He  is  mending  fast,  they  tell  me  ; 
and  with  his  health  his  strength  will  return.  I  had  rather  ’ 

she  said  it  with  a  sick  shudder  —  ‘  I  had  rather  see  him 
before  he  is  able  to  move.’ 

‘  Madam,’  urged  the  young  man,  much  agitated,  ‘  I 
entreat  you,  for  the  love  of  Christ !  You  must  not  touch 
him,  or  allow  .  .  .  He  is  one  sore  —  hideous  —  poisoned 
through  and  through.  On  my  knees  I  beg  of  you.  Nay, 
before  you  go  you  shall  kill  me.’ 

She  looked  beside  and  beyond  him  in  her  set,  pinched 
way ;  he  saw  the  doom  written  plain  on  her  face.  In  an 
agony,  not  knowing  what  he  did,  he  confronted  her  boldly. 

‘  I  shall  prevent  you.  You  shall  not  go.’ 

She  said,  looking  at  him  now  with  softened  eyes :  ‘  Oh, 
if  it  were  possible  even  now  that  I  might  be  as  once  I  was, 
even  now  I  would  say  to  thee,  my  friend,  Take  me,  O  true 
heart,  for  I  would  be  true  like  thee !  Ah,  if  it  were  pos¬ 
sible!  Ah,  if  it  were  possible!’  Her  great  eyes  seemed 
homes  of  mournful  light ;  so  longingly  did  she  look  that, 
for  a  moment,  he  thought  he  had  conquered  her.  She 
gave  a  shake  of  the  head,  and  when  she  looked  at  him 
again  the  kindly  hue  had  gone.  ‘But  it  is  not  possible  — 
and  I  am  a  soiled  woman,  wounded  in  the  side  and  defiled 
by  my  own  blood ;  for  my  desire  is  not  as  thine.’ 

‘Oh,’  cried  he,  ‘what  are  you  saying?  Do  you  con¬ 
demn  yourself  ?  ’ 


402 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


She  shook  her  head.  ‘  I  neither  condemn  nor  con¬ 
done  :  I  speak  the  truth.  I  ache  for  my  lover  ;  I  must 
work  my  lingers  to  the  bone  for  him.’ 

‘Not  while  I  have  mine  —  to  work  for  you  —  to  sin  for 
you.’ 

‘  You  cannot.  Your  fingers  are  too  tender.’ 

This  angered  him.  ‘  How  can  you  say  that,  madam  ? 
How  can  you  hurt  me  so  ?  You  know  that  I  love  you. 
Is  it  nothing  to  you  ?  Less  than  nothing  ?  ’ 

She  said,  ‘  It  is  much.  Come,  you  and  I  will  kiss 
together  for  the  last  time.’  She  smiled  a  welcome,  held 
out  her  arms ;  sobbing,  he  put  them  down  and  took  her 
in  his  own  instead,  and  held  her  close.  There  for  a  while 
she  was  content  to  be.  But  when  he  began  to  take  more 
than  his  due,  she  gently  disengaged  herself,  having  won 
her  object,  which  was  to  depart  without  him.  ‘  Adieu,  dear 
faithful  friend,’  she  said  —  ‘pray  for  me’;  and  as  he  knelt 
before  her,  she  stooped  down  and  lifted  up  his  head  by 
the  chin,  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  and  was  gone. 
After  that,  she  was  inaccessible  to  him,  her  door  denied. 

In  three  days’  time  —  on  the  23rd  of  January  —  she 
started  for  Glasgow  with  Lords  Livingstone,  Herries,  and 
Traquair.  Bothwell  went  part  of  her  way,  to  where  the 
roads  divide.  Her  last  public  act  had  been  to  allow  of  the 
marriage  between  Fleming  and  Lethington.  ‘And  now,’ 
she  said,  ‘  I  shall  have  but  one  Mary  left,  who  came  hither 
with  four.  So  endeth  our  Maids’  Adventure.’  But  if  I 
am  right,  it  had  ended  long  before.  Now  she  was  but  a 
beast  driven  by  the  herdsmen  to  the  market,  there  to  be 
cheapened  by  the  butcher. 

Of  his  own  moving  adventure  of  the  night  when,  for 
one  moment,  she  assuredly  looked  back  over  her  shoulder, 
Des-Essars  writes  what  I  consider  his  most  fatuous  page. 

‘  There  was,’  he  says,  ‘  a  kind  of  very  passion  in  that  close 
embrace ;  and  I  knew,  by  the  way  she  returned  my  kisses , 
that  she  was  strongly  inclined  to  me.  Indeed,  she  said  as 
much  when  she  told  me  that  it  would  have  been  possible, 
at  an  earlier  day,  for  her  to  love  me  as  she  had  once  loved 
the  King ;  with  ardour,  namely,  like  a  fanciful  child,  in  the 


CH.  IV 


SHE  LOOKS  BACK  ONCE 


403 


secret  mind,  with  the  body  but  little  concerned  in  the 
matter.1  But  it  was  too  late.  She  owned  herself  tainted  ; 
he  had  taught  her  vice.  She  could  be  child  no  more,  girl 
in  love  no  more ;  alas,  no,  but  a  thirsty  nymph  stung  by 
an  evil  spirit,  ever  restless,  ever  craving,  never  to  be 
appeased.  .  . 

There  is  more  in  the  same  strain,  which  I  say  is 
fatuous.  Whether  she  had  a  tenderness  for  him  or  not  — 
and  no  doubt  she  had  one  —  she  was  not  revealing  it  then. 
Far  from  it,  she  wanted  to  escape,  and  this  was  her  readiest 
way.  She  was  at  her  old  cajolery  when  she  let  him 
embrace  and  kiss  her ;  and  maybe  she  did  kiss  back.  It 
is  to  be  observed  that  she  got  her  way  immediately 
afterwards. 

1  His  own  report  stultifies  him  here.  According  to  him,  she  did  not  say  it 
would  have  been  possible,  but  oh,  that  it  had  been  possible. 


CHAPTER  V 

MEDEA  IN  THE  BEDCHAMBER 

Women,  in  the  experience  of  French  Paris,  as  he  once 
informed  a  select  company  of  his  acquaintance,  could  only 
be  trusted  to  do  a  thing,  and  never  to  cause  a  thing  to  be 
done.  ‘  They  will  always  find  a  thousand  reasons  why  it 
should  not  be  done,  or  why  it  should  be  done  another  way 
—  their  way,  an  older  way,  a  newer  way,  any  way  in  the 
world  but  yours.  Burn  the  boats,  burn  the  boats,  dear  sirs, 
when  you  need  a  woman  to  help  you,  as  you  constantly  do 
in  delicate  affairs.’  He  instanced,  as  a  case  in  point,  his 
own  confidence  in  Queen  Mary,  and  his  master’s  want  of 
confidence,  when  the  pair  of  them  rode  with  her  part  of  her 
way  to  Glasgow ;  and  how  he  was  entirely  justified  by  her 
subsequent  behaviour.  It  made  little  difference  in  the  end, 
to  be  sure ;  but  no  doubt  she  would  have  been  saved  a  good 
deal  of  distress  if  Bothwell  had  been  as  instructed  as  his 
lacquey.  As  it  is,  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he  fretted  her 
sadly.  It  was  not  only  heartless  to  play  upon  her  jealousy, 
to  put  her  so  sharply  upon  her  honour,  but  it  was  bad 
policy  on  his  part ;  for  if  the  creature  of  your  use  starts 
a-quivering  at  the  touch  of  your  hand,  how  are  you  served 
if  by  your  whip  and  spurs  you  set  her  plunging  madly  into 
the  dark,  shying  and  swerving  and  cracking  her  heart  ? 
You  wear  out  your  tool  before  the  time.  That  is  just 
what  Bothwell  did. 

The  fact  is  that,  as  aforesaid,  she  was  too  sensitive  an 
instrument  for  his  coarse  fingers.  As  well  give  Blind  Jack 
a  fiddle  of  Cremona  for  his  tap-room  jiggeries.  If  my  lord 

404 


ch.  v  MEDEA  IN  THE  BEDCHAMBER 


405 


wanted  work  from  her  which  Moll  Bawd  or  Kate  Cutsheet 
would  have  done  better,  he  should  have  known  wiselier  how 
to  get  it  than  by  using  the  only  stimulus  such  hacks  could 
feel.  This  tremulous,  starting,  docile  creature  to  be  pricked 
on  by  jealousy,  forsooth !  Why,  that  had  been  King 
Darnley’s  silly  way.  ‘  I  would  that  Glasgow  might  be  the 
Hermitage  and  myself  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  as  I  lie  here,’  he 
had  said;  and  it  made  her  laugh  and  admit  the  truth.  But 
this  Bothwell  was  no  finer.  ‘  Ohe  !  a  many  weary  leagues 
before  I  win  my  home !  Well,  I  am  sure  of  a  welcome 
there.’  And  then,  when  she  bent  her  head  to  the  way, 
‘  Ay,  Queens  and  Kings,  and  all  gudemen  and  wives  are  in 
the  like  case.  Bed  and  board  —  it  comes  down  e’en  to  that. 
Love  is  just  a  flaunty  scarf  to  draw  the  eye  with.  You  see 
it  purfling  at  a  window,  and,  think  you,  that  should  be  a 
dainty  white  hand  a-working  there  !  ’ 

She  lifted  her  face  to  meet  the  driving  snow,  looked 
into  the  dun  sky  and  saw  it  speckled  with  black  —  her  own 
colours  henceforward !  Thus  would  she  be  from  her  soul 
outwards  —  sodden  grey,  and  speckled  with  black.  The 
burden  of  her  heart  was  so  heavy  that  she  groaned  aloud. 
‘You  falter,  you  fear!  ’  cried  that  fidgety  brute.  ‘  Mercy, 
mercy,’  she  stammered ;  ‘  I  shall  fail  if  you  speak  to  me.’ 

The  snow  was  falling  fast,  but  there  was  no  wind,  when 
she  said  farewell  to  her  lover  at  Callander  gate.  He  would 
not  go  in ;  purposed  to  ride  southward  into  Liddesdale 
with  but  one  change  of  horses,  fearing  that  the  wind  would 
get  up  after  dark  and  make  the  hill-roads  impossible.  The 
Black  Laird  of  Ormiston,  Tala,  and  Bowton  were  to  go 
with  him ;  he  left  Paris  behind  to  be  her  messenger  if  she 
should  need  to  send  one.  There  was  no  time  to  spare. 
‘Set  on,  gentlemen,’  he  said,  ‘I  will  overtake  you.’ 

He  shook  the  snow  from  his  cloak,  set  it  flying  from 
eyelashes  and  beard,  drew  near  to  the  sombre  lady  where 
she  stood  in  the  midst  of  her  little  company,  and  put  his 
hand  upon  her  saddle-bow.  ‘  God  speed  your  Grace  upon 
your  goodly  errand,’  he  said  —  whereat  she  gave  a  little 
moan  of  the  voice,  but  did  not  otherwise  respond  —  ‘  and 
send  us  soon  a  happy  meeting  —  Amen  !  ’ 

She  looked  at  him  piercingly  for  a  second  of  time,  and 


4o 6  THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR  bk.  hi 

then  resumed  her  staring  and  glooming.  He  cried  her 
farewell  once  more,  saluted  the  lords,  and  pounded  over 
the  frozen  marsh.  One  could  hear  him  talking  and  laugh¬ 
ing  for  a  long  way,  and  the  barking  answers  of  Ormiston. 

The  Queen  rode  up  the  avenue  to  the  doors,  and  was 
taken  to  bed  by  Mary  Seton  and  Carwood.  She  kept  her 
chamber  all  that  evening  and  night,  but  sent  for  Paris 
early  in  the  morning.  He  saw  her  in  bed,  thin  and  drawn 
in  the  face,  very  narrow-eyed,  and  with  a  short  cough.  She 
handed  him  a  great  sack,  sealed  and  tied,  and  a  letter. 

‘Take  these  to  your  master  at  the  Hermitage.  You 
shall  have  what  horses  you  need.  In  that  pack  are  four 
hundred  crowns.  You  see  how  much  trust  I  have  in  you.’ 

Paris  assured  her  that  her  trust  was  well  bestowed,  as 
she  should  find  out  by  his  quick  return  to  her. 

She  laughed,  not  happily.  ‘  I  hope  so.  I  came  from 
France,  and  to  France  I  go  in  my  need.’ 

‘Why,  madam,’  says  Paris,  ‘does  your  Majesty  intend 
for  my  country  ?  ’ 

‘No,  no.  I  shall  see  the  land  of  France  no  more.  I 
spoke  of  Frenchmen,  who  are  tender  towards  women.’ 

Paris  felt  inspired  to  say  that  none  loved  her  Majesty 
more  entirely  than  the  men  of  his  nation,  who  had  delicate 
sensibility  for  the  perfections  of  ladies.  And  he  modestly 
adduced  as  another  example  Monsieur  Des-Essars,  lately 
advanced  to  be  one  of  her  esquires. 

She  coloured  faintly.  ‘  Yes,’  she  said,  ‘  I  believe  he  loves 
me  well.  Him  also  I  trust  —  you,  Paris,  and  Monsieur 
Des-Essars.’ 

Paris  fell  upon  his  knees.  She  changed  her  mood 
instantly,  bade  him  begone  with  the  treasure,  and  rejoin 
her  at  Glasgow  with  letters  from  my  lord. 

Paris  faithfully  performed  his  errand,  in  spite  of  the 
snow  with  which  the  country  was  blanketed  as  deeply  as  in 
a  fleece. 

‘  My  lord  was  glad  of  the  money,’  he  tells  us,  ‘  and  sent 
Monsieur  de  Tala  away  with  it  immediately.  Before  I  left 
him  to  go  to  the  Queen  at  Glasgow  he  told  me  of  his  plot, 
which  was  to  blow  the  King  up  with  gunpowder  as  he  lay 
in  a  lodging  at  Edinburgh.  I  said,  the  King  was  not  at 


ch.  v  MEDEA  IN  THE  BEDCHAMBER 


40  7 


Edinburgh  yet.  “  No,  fool,”  says  he,  “  but  he  soon  will  be.” 
He  showed  me  papers  of  association  whereon  I  was  to 
believe  stood  the  names  of  my  lord  himself,  of  my  Lords 
Morton,  Argyll,  Huntly,  Ruthven,  and  Lindsay,  of  Mr. 
Douglas,  Mr.  James  Balfour,  and  others.  He  pointed  to 
one  name  far  below  the  others.  “That,”  he  said,  “is  of 
our  friend  the  White  Rat,” — my  own  name  for  Mr.  Secretary. 
He  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  it;  I  told  him,  I  thought 
no  good  of  it.  “Why  not,  you  fool?”  he  jeered  at  me. 
I  replied,  “  Because,  my  lord,  you  do  not  show  me  the 
name  of  names.” 

‘  Although  he  knew  entirely  well  what  name  I  meant, 
he  forced  me  to  mention  Monsieur  de  Moray,  and  then  was 
angry  that  I  did  so.  He  said  that  lord  would  not  meddle. 
I  said,  “He  is  wise.”  Then  he  began  to  jump  about  the 
chamber,  hopping  from  board  to  board  like  a  crow  with  his 
wing  cut.  “  My  lord  of  Moray  !  My  lord  of  Moray !  ” 
cried  he  out.  “  He  will  neither  help  nor  hinder ;  but  it  is 
all  one.  It  is  late  now  to  change  advice  —  as  why  should 
we  change  for  a  fool’s  word  such  as  thine  ?  If  we  have 
Lethington,  blockhead,  have  we  not  his  master  ?  ” 

‘I  said,  No;  for  those  gentlemen  who  interested  them¬ 
selves  in  the  late  David  had  Mr.  Secretary,  and  thought 
they  had  the  Earl  of  Moray  also.  But  they  found  out  their 
mistake  the  next  day,  when  he  came  back  and,  rounding 
upon  them,  turned  every  one  of  them  out. 

‘  “  Well,”  he  cried  —  “  Well !  What  then  ?  What  is  all 
that  to  the  purpose  ?  Did  he  not  sign  my  bond  at  the 
Council  of  October  ?  ”  That  bond  was  what  we  used  to 
call  “Of  the  Scotchmen’s  Business,”  because  all  present 
signed  a  paper  in  favour  of  the  Queen,  which  was  not  read 
aloud.  I  admitted  that  he  had  signed  it ;  but  I  was  not 
convinced  by  that.  I  considered  that  it  pledged  him  to 
nothing.  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  add,  “You  are  my 
master,  my  lord.  If  you  command  me  in  this  I  shall  serve 
you,  because  in  my  opinion  it  is  the  business  of  servants  to 
obey,  not  to  advise.  But  I  say,  for  the  last  time,  Beware 
the  Earl  of  Moray.”  My  master  began  to  rail  and  swear 
at  his  lordship  —  a  natural  but  vain  thing  to  do.  I  was 
silent. 


40  8 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


‘  The  next  day  after,  he  told  me  that  he  had  revealed  his 
plan  to  Monsieur  Hob  of  Ormiston  and  to  his  brother-in- 
law,  my  lord  of  Huntly.  If  I  had  dared  I  should  have 
asked  him  whether  my  lady  the  Countess  had  been  in¬ 
formed  ;  and  I  did  ask  it  of  her  woman  Tories,  who  was  a 
friend  of  mine.  But  Tories  said  that,  so  far  as  she  knew, 
the  Countess  never  spoke  with  my  lord  about  the  Queen’s 
affairs. 

‘  I  was  curious  about  another  thing,  exceedingly  curious. 
“  Tell  me,  my  dear  Tories,”  I  said,  “  our  lord  and  lady  —  are 
they  still  good  friends?”  From  the  way  that  she  looked 
at  me,  her  sly  way,  and  grinned,  I  knew  the  answer. 
“  They  are  better  friends,  my  fine  man,  than  you  and  I  are 
ever  likely  to  be.”  I  said  something  gallant,  to  the  effect 
that  there  might  be  better  reasons,  and  played  some  little 
foolishness  or  other,  which  pleased  her  very  much.  Next 
morning  I  started  to  go  to  Glasgow  with  letters  for  the 
Queen’s  Majesty.’ 

That  was  on  the  26th  January,  the  very  day  when  Mr. 
Secretary  Lethington  was  married  to  his  Fleming.  Paris 
heard  that  he  took  her  to  his  house  of  Lethington,  but  (as 
he  truly  adds)  the  affair  is  of  no  moment,  where  he  took 
her,  or  whether  he  took  her  at  all.  ‘  It  was  long  since  she 
had  been  of  the  Queen’s  party ;  indeed,  I  always  under¬ 
stood  that  it  was  a  love-match  between  them,  entered  into 
at  first  sight ;  and  that  Mistress  Fleming  had  been  alienated 
from  her  allegiance  from  the  beginning.’  Paris  was  sorry. 

‘  She  was  a  pretty  and  a  modest  lady,  in  a  Court  where 
those  two  graces  were  seldom  in  partnership.’ 

He  learned  at  Glasgow  that  the  King  was  still  very  sick, 
and  the  Queen  in  a  low  condition  of  body.  It  seems  that 
when  she  had  reached  the  house  she  would  not  have  the 
patient  informed  of  the  fact,  and  would  not  go  to  him  that 
same  night.  Some  of  the  Hamiltons  had  met  her  on  the 
road,  and  returned  with  her  into  the  town.  There  was  a 
full  house,  quite  a  Court,  and  a  great  company  about  her 
at  supper.  Lady  Reres  was  there,  an  old  friend  of  her 
Majesty’s,  and  of  Lord  Bothwell’s  too,  and  Lord  Living¬ 
stone,  full  of  his  pranks.  He,  it  seems,  had  rallied  the 


ch.  v  MEDEA  IN  THE  BEDCHAMBER 


409 


Queen  finely  about  her  despondency  and  long  silences  ; 
said  in  a  loud  whisper  that  he  was  ready  for  a  toasDto  an 
absentee  if  she  would  promise  to  drink  to  the  name  he 
would  cry  ;  and  although  she  would  not  do  it,  but  shook 
her  head  and  looked  away,  his  broad  tongue  was  always 
hovering  about  Bothwell’s  name.  It  is  to  be  supposed  that 
he  drank  to  many  distant  friends,  for  Bastien,  the  Queen’s 
valet,  told  Paris  that  his  lordship  grew  very  blithe  after 
supper.  ‘  If  you  will  believe  me,  Paris,’  he  said,  ‘  as  her 
Majesty  was  warming  her  foot  at  the  fire,  leaning  upon  this 
Monsieur  de  Livingstone’s  shoulder,  his  jolly  lordship  took 
her  round  the  middle  as  if  she  had  been  his  wench,  and 
cried  out  upon  her  doleful  visage.  “  Be  merry,”  says  he, 
“and  leave  the  dumps  to  him  you  have  left  behind  you.” 
She  flung  away  from  him  as  if  he  teased  her,  but  allowed 
his  arm  to  be  where  it  was,  and  his  hardy  hand  too.’ 

Great  dealings  for  the  Parises  and  Bastiens  to  snigger  at. 
I  suppose  it  is  no  wonder  that  they  unqueened  her,  since, 
however  fast  they  went  to  work,  it  was  never  so  fast  as  she 
did  it  to  herself.  They  tell  me  it  was  always  the  way  with 
her  family,  to  choose  rather  to  be  easy  in  low  company  than 
stiff  with  the  great  folk  about  them.  The  common  sort, 
therefore,  loved  the  race  of  Stuart,  and  the  lords  detested 
it.  But  we  must  follow  Paris  if  we  are  to  see  the  Queen. 

Though  he  delivered  his  letters  as  soon  as  he  arrived, 
he  was  not  sent  for  until  late  at  night.  The  King’s  man, 
Joachim,  took  him  upstairs,  saying  as  they  went,  ‘  I  hope 
thou  hast  a  stout  stomach ;  for  take  it  from  me,  all  is  not 
very  savoury  up  here.’ 

Paris  replied  that  he  had  been  so  long  in  the  service  of 
gentlemen  that  their  savour  meant  little  to  him,  even  that 
of  diseased  gentlemen. 

‘  Right,’  says  Joachim;  *  right  for  thee,  my  little  game¬ 
cock.  But  thou  shalt  not  find  the  Queen  in  too  merry  pin, 
be  assured.’ 

Carwood,  her  finger  to  her  lip,  met  him  in  the  corridor, 
passed  him  in  through  the  anteroom,  and  pulled  aside  the 
heavy  curtain.  ‘Go  in  softly,’  she  said,  ‘and  be  careful 
of  your  feet.  It  is  very  dark,  and  the  King  sleeps.  In 
with  you.’ 


4io 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


She  drew  back  and  let  the  curtain  drive  him  forward. 
Certainly  it  was  plaguey  dark.  He  saw  the  Queen  at  the 
far  end  of  the  chamber  writing  a  letter,  haloed  in  the  light 
of  a  single  taper.  She  looked  up  when  she  heard  him,  but 
did  not  beckon  him  nearer ;  so  he  stayed  where  he  was, 
and,  as  his  eyes  grew  used  to  the  gloom,  looked  about  him. 

It  was  a  spacious  room,  but  low  in  the  ceiling,  and 
raftered,  with  heavy  curtains  across  the  windows,  which 
were  embayed.  A  great  bed  was  in  the  midst  of  the  wall, 
canopied  and  crowned,  with  plumes  at  the  corners  and 
hangings  on  all  sides  but  one  —  the  door  side.  He  could 
not  see  the  King  lying  there,  though  he  could  hear  his 
short  breaths,  ‘like  a  dog’s  with  its  tongue  out’;  but 
presently,  to  his  huge  discomfort,  he  made  out  a  sitting 
figure  close  to  the  pillow  on  the  farther  side,  and  not  six 
paces  from  him  across  the  bed  —  man  or  woman  he  never 
knew.  It  might  have  been  a  dead  person,  he  said,  for  all 
the  motion  that  it  made.  ‘It  sat  deep  in  the  shadow, 
hooded,  so  that  you  could  not  see  its  face,  or  whether  it 
had  a  face ;  and  one  white  hand  supported  the  hood.  It 
did  not  stir  when  the  sufferer  needed  assistance,  such  as 
water,  or  the  turning  of  a  pillow,  or  a  handkerchief.  It  was 
a  silent  witness  of  everything  done  and  to  be  gone  through 
with ;  gave  me  lead  in  the  bowels,  as  they  say,  the  horrors 
in  the  hair.’ 

It  may  have  been  Mary  Seton,  or  a  priest,  or  a  watching 
nun  ;  at  any  rate,  it  terrified  Paris,  his  head  already  weak¬ 
ened  by  the  burden  of  that  fetid  chamber.  The  air  was 
overpowering,  tainted  to  sourness,  seeming  to  clog  the 
eyelids  and  stifle  the  light. 

By  and  by  the  Queen  beckoned  him  forward,  putting 
up  her  finger  to  enjoin  a  soft  tread.  He  came  on  like  a 
cat,  and  stood  within  touching  distance  of  her,  and  saw 
that  she  was  kneeling  at  a  table,  writing  with  extreme 
rapidity,  tears  running  down  her  face.  There  was  a  silver 
crucifix  in  front  of  her,  to  which  she  turned  her  eyes  from 
time  to  time,  as  if  referring  to  it  the  words  which  cost  her 
so  much  to  put  down.  Once,  after  a  frenzy  of  penman¬ 
ship,  she  held  out  her  hands  to  it  in  protest ;  then  rever¬ 
ently  took  it  up  and  kissed  it,  to  sanctify  so  the  words  she 


ch.  v  MEDEA  IN  THE  BEDCHAMBER 


411 

was  writing  :  ‘  The  good  year  send  us  that  God  knit  us 
together  for  ever  for  the  most  faithful  couple  that  ever  He 
did  knit  together.'  Paris  knew  very  well  to  whom  she 
wrote  so  fully,  who  was  to  read  this  stained,  passionate 
letter,  ill  scrawled  on  scraps  of  old  paper,  scored  with 
guilt,  blotted  with  shameful  tears,  loving,  repentant,  wilful, 
petulant,  unspeakably  loyal  and  tender,  all  by  turns.  At 
this  moment  the  King  called  to  her. 

He  lay,  you  must  know,  with  a  handkerchief  over  his 
face.  Paris  had  believed  him  asleep,  for  his  breathing, 
though  short,  was  regular,  and  his  moaning  and  the  work¬ 
ing  of  his  tongue  counted  for  little  in  a  sick  man’s  slumber. 
But  while  she  was  in  the  thick  of  her  work  at  the  table  he 
coughed  and  called  out  to  her  in  distress,  ‘  Mary,  O  Mary ! 
where  are  you  gone  ?  ’  And  when  she  did  not  answer,  but 
went  on  with  the  unspinning  of  the  thought  in  her  mind, 
and  let  him  call  ‘  Mary,  O  Mary !  ’  Paris,  looking  from  one 
to  the  other  —  and  awfully  on  that  shrouded  third  —  found 
blame  for  her  in  his  heart. 

She  finished  her  line,  got  up,  and  went  to  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  ‘  You  call  me?  What  is  your  pleasure  ?  ’ 

‘  His  pleasure  !  Faith  of  a  Christian  !  ’  thinks  Paris. 

The  King  whispered,  ‘  Water,  in  Christ’s  name  ’ ;  and 
Paris  heard  the  clicking  of  his  dry  tongue.  Nevertheless 
he  said,  ‘  Let  me  fetch  you  the  water,  madam.’ 

‘Yes,’  she  said,  ‘fetch  it  you.  And  I  would  that  one  of 
us  could  be  drowned  in  the  water.’ 

He  poured  some  into  a  cup  and  took  it  to  her. 

‘Give  it  him,’  says  she,  ‘give  it  him.  I  dare  not  go 
nearer.’ 

The  King  heard  that,  and  became  sadly  agitated.  He 
wriggled  his  legs,  tossed  about,  and  began  to  wail  feebly. 
In  the  end  she  had  to  take  it,  but  you  could  see  that  she 
was  nearly  sick  with  loathing  of  him,  natural  and  other¬ 
wise.  For  to  say  nothing  that  she  had  to  lift  the  handker¬ 
chief,  that  he  was  hideous,  his  breath  like  poison,  she  was 
so  made  that  only  one  could  possess  her  at  a  time.  If 
she  loved  a  man  she  could  not  abide  that  any  other  should 
claim  a  right  of  her  —  least  of  all  one  who  had  a  title  to 
claim  it. 


412 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


The  water  cooled  his  fever  for  a  time  and  brought  him 
vitality.  He  talked,  babbled,  in  the  random  way  of  the 
very  sick,  plunging  headlong  into  the  heart  of  a  trouble 
and  flying  out  before  one  can  help  with  a  hand.  But  he 
was  quick  enough  to  see  that  she  did  not  respond  readily, 
and  sly  enough  to  try  her  upon  themes  which  he  judged 
would  be  stimulating.  He  confessed  with  facile  tears  the 
faults  of  his  youth  and  temper,  begged  her  pardon  times 
and  again  for  his  offences  against  her.  4  Oh,  I  have  done 
wickedly  by  you,  my  love,  but  all’s  over  now.  You  shall 
see  how  well  we  will  do  together.’ 

Said  she,  ‘  It  will  be  better  to  wait  a  while.  Talk  not 
too  much,  lest  you  tax  yourself.’ 

He  rolled  about,  blinking  his  sightless  eyes.  ‘  Do  not 
be  hard  upon  me  !  I  repent  —  I  tell  you  that  I  do.  Pardon 
me,  my  Mary,  pardon  my  faults.  Let  us  be  as  we  were 
once  —  lovers  —  wedded  lovers  —  all  in  all !  ’  Paris  saw 
her  sway,  with  shut  eyes,  as  she  listened  to  him.  ‘  I  would 
have  you  sleep  now,  my  lord.  It  will  be  best  for  you. 
You  tire  yourself  by  talking.’ 

He  begged  for  a  kiss,  and,  when  she  affected  not  to 
hear  him,  grew  very  wild.  It  was  a  curious  thing  that  she 
did  then,  watched  by  Paris  with  wonder.  She  dipped  the 
tips  of  her  two  forefingers  in  the  cup  of  water,  and,  putting 
them  together,  touched  the  back  of  his  hand  with  them. 
‘  Ah,  the  balm  of  your  cool  sweet  lips !  ’  he  cried  out,  and 
was  satisfied.  But  when  he  asked  her  to  kiss  his  forehead 
she,  in  turn,  became  agitated,  laughing  and  crying  at  once, 
and  rocked  herself  about  before  she  could  repeat  the  touch 
of  her  two  wet  fingers  on  so  foul  a  place.  Again  he 
sighed  his  content,  and  lay  quiet,  and  presently  dozed 
again. 

She  left  him  instantly  and  went  back  to  her  writing. 
She  wrote  fast ;  the  fierce  pen  screamed  over  the  paper : 
‘You  make  me  dissemble  so  much  that  I  am  afraid 
thereof  with  horror.  ...  You  almost  make  me  play  the 
part  of  a  traitor.  ...  If  it  were  not  for  obeying  I  had  rather 
be  dead.  My  heart  bleedeth  at  it.  .  .  .’  And  again, 
‘  Alas !  I  never  deceived  anybody,  but  I  remit  myself 
wholly  to  your  will.  Send  me  word  what  I  shall  do,  and 


ch.  v  MEDEA  IN  THE  BEDCHAMBER 


4i3 


whatsoever  happen  unto  me  I  will  obey  you.  .  .  .  Think 
also  if  you  will  not  find  some  invention  more  secret  by 
physic ;  for  he  is  to  take  physic  at  Craigmillar  and  the 
baths  also,  and  shall  not  come  forth  for  a  long  time.  .  .  . 

...  ‘  It  is  very  late  ;  and  although  I  should  never  be 
tired  in  writing  to  you,  yet  I  will  end  after  kissing  your 
hands.  Excuse  my  evil  writing  and  read  this  over  twice. 
.  .  .  Pray  remember  your  friend  and  write  to  her,  and 
often.  Love  me  always  as  I  shall  love  you.’ 

She  put  a  bracelet  of  twisted  hair  in  between  the  sheets, 
made  a  packet  of  the  whole,  and  beckoned  Paris  to  follow 
her  into  the  next  room.  4  Take  you  this,’  she  said,  ‘  whither 
you  know  well,  and  tell  my  lord  all  that  you  have  seen 
and  heard.  He  will  learn  so  that  I  am  a  faithful  and 
obedient  lover.  And  if  he  should  be  jealous,  and  ask  you 
in  what  manner  I  have  behaved  myself  here,  you  may 
show  him.'  So  speaking,  she  joined  her  two  forefingers,  as 
he  had  seen  her  do  before,  and  touched  the  table  with 
them.  He  was  not  likely  to  forget  that,  however.  It 
struck  him  as  an  ingenious  and  quaint  device. 

‘  If  my  lord  need  me,’  she  went  on,  ‘  he  can  send  you  to 
Linlithgow,  where  I  shall  lie  one  night.  Thence  I  shall  go 
directly  to  Craigmillar  with  the  King’s  litter.  It  is  late, 
and  I  must  go  to  bed,  if  not  to  sleep.  Other  women  lie 
abed,  comforted,  or  to  be  comforted  before  daylight ;  but 
that  cannot  I  be  as  yet.  Now  go,  Paris.’ 

He  said,  ‘  Madam,  be  of  good  heart.  All  things  come 
by  waiting.’ 

She  sighed,  but  said  nothing.  He  made  his  reverence, 
and  away. 


CHAPTER  VI 

KIRK  O’  FIELD 

The  Earl  of  Bothwell  returned  to  Edinburgh  the  day 
before  the  Queen  was  to  leave  Glasgow,  and  sent  for  Des- 
Essars  to  come  to  his  lodging.  ‘Baptist,’  he  said,  ‘I 
understand  that  her  Majesty  will  be  at  Linlithgow  this 
night,  with  the  King  in  his  litter.  She  will  look  to  see  me 
there,  but  l  cannot  go,  with  all  my  affairs  in  this  town 
out  of  train  and  no  one  to  overlook  them  but  myself.  I 
desire  you,  therefore,  to  go  with  the  escort  that  is  to  meet 
her,  and  to  give  her  this  message  from  me :  “  It  has  not 
been  found  possible  to  accommodate  the  King  at  Craig- 
millar,  but  a  house  has  been  got  for  him  near  Saint-Mary- 
in-the-Field,  and  properly  furnished.  Please  your  Majesty, 
therefore,  direct  his  bearers  thither.”  ’ 

He  made  him  repeat  the  words  two  or  three  times  until 
he  was  sure  of  them  ;  then  added,  ‘  If  the  Queen  ask  you 
more  concerning  this  house,  with  intent  to  know  more ,  and 
not  for  mere  curiosity,  you  shall  tell  her  that  it  is  near  the 
great  house  of  the  Hamiltons,  in  the  which  the  Archbishop 
now  lodges.  She  will  be  satisfied  with  that,  you  will  find, 
and  ask  you  no  more.’ 

Des-Essars  understood  him  perfectly;  but  in  case  the 
reader  do  not,  I  shall  remind  him  that  this  Archbishop 
Hamilton  of  Saint  Andrews  was  brother  of  the  old  Duke 
of  Chatelherault,  of  whom  he  used  to  hear  in  the  beginning 
of  this  book  —  one  of  the  clan,  then,  which  disputed  the 
Succession  with  the  Lennox  Stuarts  and  was  regarded  by 

414 


CH.  VI 


KIRK  O’  FIELD 


4i5 


the  King  as  an  hereditary  enemy,  with  a  blood-feud  neither 
quenched  nor  quenchable.  That  same  Archbishop,  when 
the  Queen  was  at  Stirling  for  the  baptism,  scaring’of  the 
King,  recall  of  Morton  and  the  rest  of  the  deeds  done  there, 
had  been  restored  to  his  consistorial  powers,  and  put  at 
liberty  to  bind  and  loose  according  to  his  discretion  and 
that  of  Saint  Peter  his  master.  There  had  been  some  talk 
at  the  time  as  to  why  he  had  been  so  highly  favoured, 
and  the  opinion  commonly  held  that  he  was  to  divorce 
the  Queen  from  the  King.  That  was  not  French  Paris’s 
opinion,  for  one.  In  Edinburgh  now,  at  any  rate,  was  this 
Archbishop  Hamilton  with  the  keys  of  binding  and  loosing 
in  his  hands,  not  as  yet  making  any  use  of  them,  and 
lodging  in  the  great  family  house  without  the  city  wall. 

Well,  the  escort  departed  for  Linlithgow,  Des-Essars 
with  it.  This  is  what  he  says  of  his  adored  mistress : 

‘  I  think  she  was  glad  to  see  me,  as  certainly  was  I  to 
see  her  looking  so  hale  and  fresh.  Her  eyes  were  like  wet 
stars;  she  kissed  me  twice  at  meeting,  with  lips  which  had 
regained  their  vivid  scarlet,  were  cool  but  not  dry.  I 
hastened  to  excuse  my  Lord  Bothwell  on  the  score  of 
affairs.  “  Yes,  yes,  I  know  how  pressed  he  is,”  she  replied. 
“ 1  know  he  would  have  come  if  it  had  been  possible.  He 
has  sent  me  the  best  proxy  by  you.”  I  told  her  that  my 
Lord  Huntly  would  be  here  momently,  but  she  made  a 

pouting  mouth  and  a  little  grimace  —  then  looked  slily  at 
me  and  laughed. 

I  rehearsed  faithfully  my  Lord  Bothwell’s  message,  and 
could  not  see  that  she  was  particularly  interested  in  the 
King  s  actual  lodging  —  though  that  is  by  no  means  to 
imply  that  she  was  not  interested.  It  is  due  to  say  that  I 
never  knew  any  person  in  all  my  experience  of  Courts  and 
policy  so  quick  as  she  not  only  to  conceal  her  thoughts, 
but  also  to  foresee  when  it  would  behove  her  to  conceal 

them.  It  was  next  to  impossible  to  surprise  her  heart  out 
of  her. 

‘  She  asked  me  eagerly  for  Edinburgh  news.  I  told  her 
that  the  Hamiltons  were  in  their  own  house;  the  Arch¬ 
bishop  there  already,  and  my  Lord  of  Arbroath  expected 
every  day.  She  said  in  a  simple,  wondering  kind  of  a 


4i  6 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


way,  “  Why,  the  Hamilton  house  is  next  neighbour  unto 
the  King’s,  I  suppose  ?  ” 

‘  “  Madam,”  I  said,  “  it  is.  And  so  my  Lord  Bothwell 
bid  me  remind  your  Majesty.” 

‘She  laughed;  a  little  confusedly.  “Better  the  King 
should  not  know  of  it,”  she  said.  “  He  hates  that  family, 
and  fears  them,  too.  But  that  is  not  extraordinary,  for  he 
always  hates  those  whom  he  fears.” 

‘She  asked,  was  my  lord  of  Morton  in  town?  I 
replied  that  he  was,  with  a  strong  guard  about  his  doors 
and  a  goodly  company  within  them,  as  Mr.  Archibald 
Douglas  of  Whittingehame  and  his  brother,  Captain 
Cullen,  Mr.  Balfour  of  Fliske,  and  others  like  him,  and 
also  the  laird  of  Grange.  To  him  resorted  most  of  the 
lords  of  the  new  religion  ;  they,  namely,  of  Lindsay,  Ruth- 
ven,  Glencairn,  and  Argyll.  My  lord  of  Bothwell,  how¬ 
ever,  lodging  in  the  Huntly  house,  had  a  larger  following 
than  the  Douglases ;  for  all  the  Hamiltons  paid  him 
court  as  well  as  his  own  friends.  She  did  not  ask  me,  but 
I  told  her  that  her  brother,  my  Lord  Moray,  kept  much  to 
himself,  and  saw  few  but  ministers  of  his  religion,  such  as 
Mr.  Wood  and  Mr.  Craig,  and  Mr.  Secretary  Lethington, 
who  (with  his  wife)  was  lodged  in  his  lordship’s  house,  and 
worked  with  him  every  day. 

‘  She  stopped  me  here  by  looking  long  at  me,  and  then 
asking  shortly,  “  Have  you  heard  anything  of  my  Lady 
Bothwell  ?  ”  which  confused  me  very  much.  I  could  only 
reply  that  I  had  heard  she  had  been  indisposed.  “  I  am 
sorry  to  hear  it,”  said  she  in  quite  an  ordinary  tone,  “  and 
am  sorry  also  for  her,  when  she  finds  out  that  her  sickness 
is  not  what  she  hopes  it  is.  You  have  not  seen  her,  I 
suppose  ?  ”  I  had  not. 

‘  “  I  have  seen  her  in  illness,”  she  pursued.  “  It  does  not 
become  white-faced  women  to  be  so,  for  to  be  pale  is  one 
thing,  but  to  be  pallid  another.  When  the  transparency 
departs  from  a  complexion  of  ivory,  the  residuum  is  paste. 
I  myself  have  not  a  high  colour  by  nature :  yet  when  I  am 
ill,  as  I  am  now,  I  always  have  fever,  and  look  better  than 
when  my  health  is  better.  Did  you  not  think,  when  you 
saw  me  first  this  morning,  that  I  looked  well  ?  ” 


KIRK  O’  FIELD 


CH.  VI 


417 


‘  I  had  thought  she  looked  both  beautiful  and  well,  and 
told  her  so.  She  was  pleased. 

‘  “  I  love  you,  Baptist,  when  you  look  at  me  like  that, 
and  your  words  find  echo  in  your  eyes.  Now  I  will  tell 
you  that  the  joy  of  seeing  you  again  had  much  to  say  to 
my  good  looks.  But  I  think  that  women  would  always 
rather  look  well  than  be  well.” 

‘  As  soon  as  my  Lord  Huntly  had  come  in  and  dined, 
we  departed  from  Linlithgow.  Her  Majesty  rode  on  with 
that  lord,  Lord  Livingstone  and  the  others,  leaving  me 
behind  with  Mr.  Erskine  and  the  ladies,  to  conduct  the 
King’s  litter  safely  to  the  house  prepared  for  him.  I  did 
not  see  his  face  nor  hear  him  speak,  but  understood  that 
he  was  greatly  better.  His  hand,  which  was  often  outside 
the  curtains,  waving  about,  looked  that  of  a  clean  man. 
He  kept  it  out  there,  my  Lady  Reres  told  me,  in  the  hope 
that  her  Majesty  would  see  and  touch  it.  Once,  when  it 
had  been  signalling  about  for  some  while,  her  ladyship 
said,  “  ’Tis  a  black  shame  there  should  be  a  man’s  hand 
wagging  and  no  woman’s  to  slip  into  it.”  So  then  she  let 
him  get  hold  of  hers  ;  and  he,  thinking  he  had  the  Queen’s, 
squeezed  and  fondled  it  until  she  was  tired.  We  got  him 
by  nightfall  into  a  mean  little  house,  set  in  a  garden  the 
most  disconsolate  and  weed-grown  that  ever  you  saw.  It 
was  a  wild,  wet  evening,  and  as  we  went  down  Thieves’ 
Row  the  deplorable  inhabitants  of  that  street  of  stews  and 
wicked  dens  were  at  their  doors  watching  us.  As  we  came 
by  they  pointed  to  the  gable  of  the  house,  and  uttered  harsh 
and  jeering  cries.  Lady  Reres  screamed  and  covered  her 
face.  There  was  perched  an  old  raven  on  the  gable-end, 
that  croaked  like  any  philosopher  in  the  dumps  ;  and  as 
we  set  down  the  litter  in  the  roadway,  he  flapped  his 
ragged  wings  twice  or  thrice,  and  flew  off  into  the  dark, 
trailing  his  legs  behind  him.  The  people  thought  it  an 
ill-omen.  .  .  .’ 


Here,  for  the  time  being,  I  forsake  Des-Essars,  and  that 
for  two  reasons :  the  first,  that  I  have  a  man  to  hand  who 
knew  more ;  the  second,  that  what  little  the  Brabanter  did 
know  he  did  not  care  to  tell.  A  more  than  common 


2  D 


418 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


acquaintance  with  his  work  assures  me  that  his  secret  pre¬ 
occupied  him  from  hereabouts  to  the  end  —  that  Secret  des 
Secrets  of  his  which  he  thought  so  important  as  to  have 
written  his  book  for  nothing  else  but  to  hold  it.  We  shall 
come  upon  it  all  in  good  time,  and  see  more  evidently  than 
now  we  do  another,  and  what  we  may  call  supererogatory 
secret,  which  is  that  he  grew  bolder  in  his  passion  for  the 
Queen,  and  she,  perhaps,  a  little  inclined  to  humour  it.  But 
for  the  present  we  leave  him,  and  turn  to  the  brisk  narrative 
of  one  who  knew  nearly  everything  that  was  to  be  known, 
and  could  hazard  a  sharp  guess  at  things  which,  it  almost 
seems,  could  never  perfectly  be  known.  I  mean,  of  course, 
our  assured  friend  French  Paris  —  bought,  once  for  all, 
with  a  crown  piece. 

French  Paris  asks,  in  his  bright  way,  ‘  Do  you  know 
that  lane  that  runs  straight  from  the  Cowgate  to  the  old 
house  by  the  Blackfriars  —  the  Blackfriars’  Wynd,  as  they 
call  it  ?  You  nod  your  head,  and  he  continues.  ‘Well, 
towards  the  end  of  that  same  lane,  if  you  wish  to  reach  the 
convent  house,  you  pass  through  the  ancient  wall  of  the 
city  by  a  gate  in  it  which  is  called  the  Kirk  o’  Field  Port. 
This  will  lead  you  to  the  Blackfriars’  Church,  but  not 
until  you  have  turned  the  angle  of  the  wall  and  followed 
the  road  round  it  towards  the  left  hand.  Within  that 
angle  stands  another  church,  Saint  Mary-of-the-Field, 
which  has  nothing  to  do  with  what  I  have  to  tell  you.  But 
mark  what  I  say  now.  You  go  through  the  Kirk  o’  Field 
Port ;  you  turn  to  the  left  round  by  the  wall ;  on  your 
right  hand,  at  no  great  distance  along,  you  behold  a  row 
of  poor  hovels  at  right  angles  to  your  present  direction  — 
doorless  cabins,  windowless,  without  chimneys,  swarming 
with  pigs,  fowls,  and  filthy  children  ;  between  them  a  very 
vile  road  full  of  holes  and  quags  and  broken  potsherds. 
That  is  called  Thieves’  Row,  and  for  the  best  of  good 
reasons.  Nevertheless,  behind  those  little  pigs’  houses, 
on  either  hand,  there  are  gardens  very  fair ;  and  if  you 
venture  up,  above  the  thatch  of  the  roofs  you  will  see  the 
tops  of  fine  trees  waving  in  a  cleaner  air  than  you  would 
believe  possible,  and  find  in  the  full  middle  of  this  Thieves’ 
Row,  again  on  either  hand,  a  garden  gate  right  in  among 


CH.  VI 


KIRK  O’  FIELD 


419 


the  mean  tenements.  That  which  is  on  the  right  hand  leads 
into  the  old  Blackfriars’  Garden,  a  great  tangled  place  of 
trees  and  greensward  with  thickets  interspersed  ;  the  other, 
on  the  left  hand,  belongs  to  the  garden  of  the  house 
wherein  they  lodged  the  King  when  they  had  brought  him 
from  Glasgow.  Above  the  gate  could  once  be  seen  the 
gable-end  of  the  house  itself ;  but  you  will  not  see  it  now 
if  you  look  for  it.  And  if  you  stood  in  the  garden  of  his 
house  and  looked  out  over  the  boskage,  you  could  see  the 
hotel  of  the  Lord  Archbishop  of  Saint  Andrews,  the 
Hamilton  House.  Usefully  enough,  as  it  turned  out,  there 
let  a  little  door  from  the  corner  of  the  King’s  garden  right 
upon  the  Archbishop’s  house. 

‘To  tell  you  of  the  King’s  lodging,  it  was  as  mean  as 
you  please,  built  of  rough-cast  work  upon  arches  of  rubble 
and  plaster,  with  a  flight  of  stairs  from  the  ground-level 
reaching  to  the  first  floor  —  the  piano  nobile ,  save  the  mark  ! 
Upon  that  floor  was  a  fair  hall,  and  a  chamber  in  which 
the  Queen  might  lie  when  she  chose,  wardrobe,  maids’ 
chamber,  cabinet,  and  such  like.  The  King  lay  on  the 
floor  above,  having  his  own  chamber  for  his  great  bed, 
with  a  little  dressing-room  near  by.  His  servants,  of 
whom  he  had  not  more  than  three  or  four,  slept  some  in 
the  passage  and  some  in  the  hall ;  except  his  chamber- 
child,  who  lay  in  the  bed-chamber  itself,  on  or  below  the 
foot  of  the  King’s  great  bed.  Now  those  stairs  of  which  I 
told  you  just  now  led  directly  from  the  garden  to  the  hall 
upon  the  first  floor ;  but  out  of  the  Queen’s  chamber  there 
was  a  door  giving  on  to  a  flight  of  wooden  steps,  very  con¬ 
venient,  as  thereby  she  could  come  in  and  out  of  the  house 
without  being  disturbed.  All  this  I  observed  for  myself, 
as  my  master  desired  me,  when  Nelson,  the  King’s  man, 
was  showing  me  how  ill-furnished  and  meanly  found  it  was 
to  be  the  lodging  of  so  great  a  gentleman. 

‘To  say  nothing  of  the  garden,  which,  in  that  winter 
season,  was  miserable  indeed,  I  was  bound  to  agree  that 
the  house  wanted  repair.  Nelson  showed  me  where  the 
roof  let  in  water  ;  he  showed  me  the  holes  of  rats,  the 
track  of  their  runs  across  the  floors,  and  the  places  where 
they  had  gnawed  the  edges  of  the  doors.  “  And,  if  you 


420 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


will  believe  me,  Paris,”  said  he,  “there  is  not  so  much  as  a 
key  to  a  lock  in  the  whole  crazy  cabin.”  This  was  a  thing 
which  I  was  glad  to  have  learned,  and  to  bring  to  my 
master’s  knowledge  when,  at  the  last  moment,  he  thought 
fit  to  acquaint  me  with  his  pleasure.  I  had  heard,  in  out¬ 
line,  what  it  was,  on  the  day  before  I  went  to  the  Queen 
at  Glasgow  ;  but  I  will  ask  you  to  believe  that  he  told  me 
no  more  until  the  morning  of  the  day  when  I  received  his 
commands  to  go  to  work.  This  is  entirely  true ;  though 
it  is  equally  true  that  I  found  out  a  good  deal  for  myself. 
My  master,  you  must  understand,  had  not  a  fool  under  his 
authority.  No,  no  ! 

‘  I  did  not  myself  see  the  Queen  for  two  or  three  days 
after  the  King’s  coming  in,  though  I  took  many  letters  to 
her  and  bore  back  her  replies.  When  I  say  I  did  not  see 
her,  that  is  a  lie :  I  did  —  but  never  to  speak  with  her, 
merely  as  one  may  pass  in  the  street.  I  was  struck  with 
her  fine  looks  and  the  shrill  sound  of  her  laughter:  she 
talked  more  than  ordinarily,  and  never  spared  herself  in 
the  dance.  Once,  or  maybe  twice,  she  visited  the  King  in 
his  lodging  —  not  to  sleep  there  herself,  though  her  bed 
stood  always  ready,  but  going  down  to  supper  and  remain¬ 
ing  till  late  in  the  evening  :  never  alone ;  once  with  the 
Lords  Moray  and  Argyll,  and  once  with  (among  other- 
company)  her  brother,  the  Lord  Robert,  and  a  Spanish 
youth  very  much  in  his  confidence.  As  to  this  second 
visit,  Monsieur  Des-Essars,  who  was  there,  told  me  a 
singular  thing,1  namely,  that  this  Lord  Robert  had  been 
moved  to  impart  to  the  King  the  danger  he  lay  in  —  that 
is,  close  to  the  Hamiltons,  and  with  my  Lord  Morton  at 
large  and  in  favour  in  Edinburgh.  Now,  for  some  reason 
or  another,  it  seems  that  his  Majesty  repeated  the  con¬ 
fidence  to  the  Queen  herself  just  as  I  have  told  it  to  you. 
Whereupon,  said  Monsieur  Des-Essars,  she  flew  into  a 
passion,  commanded  the  Lord  Robert  into  her  presence, 
and  when  he  was  before  her,  the  King  lying  on  his  bed, 
bade  him  repeat  the  story  if  he  dare.  My  Lord  Robert 
laughed  it  off  as  done  by  way  of  a  jest,  and  the  Queen, 
more  and  more  angry,  sent  him  away.  Now,  here  comes 

1  Des-Essars  himself,  it  is  to  be  observed,  omits  this  story  altogether. 


CH.  VI 


KIRK  O’  FIELD 


421 


what  I  call  the  cream  of  the  jest.  “  You  may  judge  from 
this,  Paris,”  said  M.  Des-Essars  to  me,  “  how  monstrous 
foolish  it  is  to  suppose  that  the  Queen  devises  some  mis¬ 
chief  against  her  consort,  or  shares  the  counsels  of  any 
of  his  enemies.  For  certainly,  if  she  did,  she  would  not 
provoke  them  into  betraying  her  in  his  own  presence.” 

‘  I  thanked  his  honour,  but  when  he  had  gone  I  burst 
out  laughing  to  myself.  Do  you  ask  why  ?  First  of  all, 
none  knew  better  than  M.  Des-Essars  how  the  Queen 
stood  with  regard  to  her  husband,  and  why  my  lord 
of  Morton  had  been  suffered  to  come  home.  None  knew 
better  than  he,  except  it  were  the  Queen  herself,  that 
the  King  was  to  be  removed,  she  standing  aside.  Very 
well :  then  why  did  M.  Des-Essars  try  to  hoodwink 
me,  except  in  the  hope  to  gather  testimony  on  all  sides 
against  what  he  feared  must  take  place?  But  why  did 
the  Queen  bring  my  Lord  Robert  face  to  face  with  the 
King,  she  knowing  too  well  that  his  warning  had  bones  and 
blood  in  it  ?  Ah  !  that  is  more  delicate  webbery  :  she  was 
a  better  politician  than  her  young  friend.  To  begin  with, 
there  was  no  real  danger;  for  the  Lord  Robert  knew 
nothing,  and  was  nothing  but  a  windbag.  His  confusion, 
therefore  (he  was  at  heart  a  coward),  would  give  the  King 
confidence.  But,  secondly,  I  am  sure  she  still  hoped  that 
his  Majesty  might  be  removed  without  my  master’s  aid.  I 
think  she  said  to  herself,  “  The  King  gains  his  health  ”  —  as 
indeed  he  did,  with  his  natural  skin  coming  back  again,  and 
the  clear  colour  to  his  eyes  —  “  and  with  health,”  she  would 
reason  it,  “his  choler  will  return.  To  confront  these  two, 
with  a  lie  between  them,  may  provoke  a  quarrel.  The 
daggers  are  handy :  who  can  say  what  the  end  of  this  may 
be  ?  One  of  two  mishaps  :  the  King  will  kill  Lord  Robert, 
or  Lord  Robert  the  King;  either  way  will  be  good.” 
Observe,  I  know  nothing;  but  that  is  how  I  read  the 
story. 

‘  Now,  all  this  while  my  master  was  very  busy,  very  brisk 
and  happy,  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  as  he  went  about 
his  business — as  he  always  did  on  the  verge  of  a  great 
enterprise;  but  the  first  precise  information  I  had  that  our 


422 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


work  was  close  at  hand  was  upon  9th  February,  being  a 
Sunday.  My  master  lodging  at  the  Lord  Huntly’s  house 
in  the  Cowgate,  I  was  standing  at  the  door  at,  maybe,  seven 
o’clock  in  the  morning  ;  black  as  Hell  it  was,  but  the  cold 
not  extraordinary.  There  came  some  woman  down  the 
street  with  a  lantern  swinging,  and  stopped  quite  close  to 
me.  She  swung  her  lantern-light  into  my  face,  and,  the 
moment  she  saw  that  I  was  I,  began  to  speak  in  an  urgent 
way.  She  was  Margaret  Carwood,  one  of  the  Queen’s 
women. 

‘  “  Oh,  Paris,”  she  says,  “  I  have  been  sent  express  to 
you !  You  are  to  go  down  to  the  King’s  lodging  and  fetch 
away  the  quilt  which  lies  on  the  Queen’s  bed  there.” 

‘  I  knew  this  quilt  well  —  a  handsome  piece  of  work,  of 
Genoa  velvet,  much  overlaid  with  gold  thread,  which  they 
say  had  belonged  to  the  old  Queen. 

‘  I  asked,  “  By  whose  order  come  you,  my  good  Car- 
wood  ?  ”  for  I  was  not  everybody’s  man. 

‘  She  replied,  “  By  the  Queen’s  own,  given  to  me  by 
word  of  mouth,  not  an  hour  since.  Go  now,  go,  Paris. 
She  is  in  a  rare  fluster,  and  will  not  rest.” 

‘  “  Toho !  ”  I  say,  “  she  disquieteth  herself  about  this 

quilt.” 

‘  And  Carwood  said,  “  Ay,  for  it  belonged  to  her  lady 
mother,  and  is  therefore  worth  rubies  in  her  sight.  ^  She 
hath  not  slept  a  wink  since  she  woke  dreaming  of  it.” 

‘To  be  short,  this  gave  me,  as  they  say,  food  for 
thoughts.  Then,  about  the  eleven  o’clock,  as  the  people 
were  coming  out  from  their  sermon,  I  had  more  of  the 
same  provender  —  and  a  full  meal  of  it.  Judge  for  your¬ 
selves  when  I  tell  you  with  what  the  vomiting  church  doors 
were  buzzing.  My  lord  of  Moray  had  left  Edinburgh 
overnight  and  gone  northward,  to  Lochleven,  to  see  his 
mother,  the  Lady  Douglas.  He  had  taken  secret  leave  of 
the  Queen,  and  immediately  after  was  away.  Oh,  Monsieur 
de  Moray,  Monsieur  de  Moray  !  is  not  your  lordship  the 
archetype  and  everlasting  pattern  of  all  rats  that  are  and 
shall  be  in  the  world  ? 

‘Now,  putting  the  one  thing  on  the  top  of  the  other, 
you  may  believe  that  I  was  not  at  all  surprised  to  get  my 


CH.  VI 


KIRK  O’  FIELD 


423 


master’s  orders  the  same  day,  to  convey  certain  gunpowder 
from  Hamilton  House  through  the  King’s  garden  into  the 
Queen’s  chamber  so  soon  as  it  was  quite  dark.  There  you 
have  the  reason  why  the  quilt  had  been  saved.  Powrie, 
Dalgleish,  and  Patrick  Wilson  were  to  help  me ;  Monsieur 
Hob  d’Ormiston  would  show  us  how  to  dispose  of  our  loads 
and  spread  the  train  for  the  slow  match.  In  Hamilton 
House  it  lay,  mark  you  well!  I  will  make  the  figs  in 
the  face  of  anybody  who  tells  me  that  the  Hamiltons 
were  not  up  to  the  chin  in  the  affair.  How  should  we 
use  their  house  without  their  leave  ?  There  were  the 
Archbishop  and  Monsieur  d’ Arbroath  involved.  But 
enough !  It  is  obvious.  And  I  can  tell  you  of  another 
gentleman  heavily  involved,  no  one  more  certainly  than  I. 
It  was  my  lord  of  Huntly  :  yes,  gentlemen,  no  less  a  man. 

‘It  fell  out  about  the  five  o’clock  that,  judging  it  dark 
enough  for  far  more  delicate  work  than  this  of  powder- 
laying,  I  was  setting  out  to  join  my  colleagues  by  Hamilton 
House,  when  my  Lord  Huntly  sends  down  a  valet  for  me 
to  go  to  his  cabinet.  I  had  had  very  few  dealings  with  this 
young  nobleman,  whom  (to  say  truth)  I  had  always  con¬ 
sidered  something  of  a  dunce.  He  was  as  silent  as  his 
sister,  my  masters  lady,  and,  after  his  fashion,  as  good  to 
look  upon.  You  never  saw  a  straighter-legged  man,  nor  a 
straighter-looking,  nor  one  who  carried,  as  I  had  thought, 
an  empty  head  higher  in  the  air.  That  was  my  mistake. 
He  was  an  old  lover  of  the  Queen’s,  whom  she  fancied  less 
than  his  brother  Sir  Adam.  He,  that  Sir  Adam,  had  been 
bosom-friend  of  Monsieur  Des-Essars  when  the  pair  of  them 
were  boys,  and  had  shared  the  Queen’s  favours  together, 
which  very  likely  were  not  so  bountiful  as  common  rumour 
would  have  them.  He  certainly  was  a  fiery  youth,  who  may 
one  day  do  greatly.  But  I  admit  that  I  had  held  my  Lord 
Huntly  for  a  want-wit  —  and  that  I  was  very  much  mistaken. 

‘  I  went  up  and  into  his  cabinet,  and  found  him  standing 
before  the  fire,  with  his  legs  spread  out. 

‘“Paris,”  says  he,  “you  are  off  on  an  errand  of  your 
master’s,  I  jealouse  ;  one  that  might  take  you  not  a  hundred 
miles  from  the  Blackfriars’  Garden.” 

‘  I  admitted  all  this.  “  I  might  tell  you,”  he  says, 


424 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


“that  I  know  that  errand  of  yours,  and  share  in  the 
enterprise  which  directs  it.  Maybe  you  have  been  shown 
my  name  upon  a  parchment  writing :  I  know  that  you  are 
in  your  master’s  confidence.” 

‘  I  replied  that  I  had  understood  his  lordship  had  been 
made  privy  to  my  master’s  thoughts  in  many  matters,  as 
was  only  reasonable,  seeing  the  relationship  between  both 
their  lordships:  upon  which  he  said,  “You  are  a  sly  little 
devil,  Paris,  but  have  a  kind  of  honesty,  too.”  I  thanked 
him  for  his  good  opinion ;  and  then  he  says,  looking  very 
hard  at  me,  “  Your  master  is  now  abroad  upon  this  weighty 
business,  and  has  left  me  to  order  matters  at  home.  Now 
mark  me  well,  Paris,  and  fail  not  in  any  particular,  at  your 
extreme  peril.  The  train  is  to  be  put  to  proof  at  two  o'  clock 
of  the  morning  by  the  bell  of  Saint  Giles  ,  but  not  a  moment 
before.  You  are  to  tell  this  to  Mr.  Hobbie  Ormiston,  who 
will  report  it  to  your  master.  Do  you  swear  upon  your 
mother’s  soul  in  Paradise  that  you  will  deliver  this 
message  ?  ”  he  says.  I  promised,  and,  what  is  more,  I 
kept  my  promise ;  but  at  the  time  I  thought  it  very  odd 
that  my  master,  generally  so  careful  in  these  nice  under¬ 
takings,  should  have  left  the  all-important  direction  of 
time  whe?i  to  so  dull-minded  a  person  as  my  Lord  Huntly. 
To  add  to  my  bewilderment,  Monsieur  Hob  also,  when  I 
gave  him  the  message,  told  me  that  he  had  had  it  already 
from  his  lordship,  and  had  repeated  it  to  my  master. 
Immediately  afterwards  we  set  to  work  at  our  little  pre¬ 
liminaries,  and  were  soon  sweating  and  black  as  negroes. 

‘  That  night  there  was  a  supper  in  the  hall  of  the  King’s 
lodging,  the  Queen  being  there,  my  master,  the  Earls  of 
Huntly  and  Argyll,  the  Lord  Livingstone  and  others,  with 
the  King  lying  on  a  couch  that  he  might  have  their 
company.  They  were  merry  enough  at  their  meal,  for  I 
was  working  close  by  and  heard  them  ;  and  I  could  not 
help  reflecting  upon  the  drollery  of  it  —  for  it  was  droll  — 
that  here  were  executioners  and  patient  all  laughing 
together,  and  I  behind  the  party  wall  laying  the  table  (as 
it  were)  for  an  ambrosial  banquet  for  one  at  least  of  the 
company.  It  is  impossible  to  avoid  these  humorous 
images,  or  I  find  it  so. 


CH.  VI 


KIRK  O’  FIELD 


425 


‘  Bastien  the  Breton  had  that  very  morning  been  married 
to  Dolet  —  both  Queen’s  servants.  She  had  been  at  their 
mass,  and  (loving  them  fondly,  as  she  was  prone  to  love 
her  servants)  intended  to  be  present  at  the  masque  of  the 
night  and  to  put  the  bride  to  bed.  She,  my  master, 
Monsieur  de  Huntly,  and  Mistress  Seton  were  all  to  go ; 
they  were  at  this  supper  in  their  masquing  gear.  My 
master’s  was  very  rich,  being  of  a  black  satin  doublet 
slashed  with  cloth  of  silver,  black  velvet  trunks  trussed  and 
tagged  with  the  same.  My  lord  of  Huntly  was  all  in 
white.  I  did  not  fairly  see  the  Queen’s  gown,  which  was 
of  a  dark  colour,  I  think  of  claret,  and  her  neck  and  bosom 
bare.  I  remember  that  she  had  a  small  crown  of  daisies 
and  pearls,  and  a  collar  of  the  same  things. 

‘  At  eleven  o’clock,  or  perhaps  a  little  after,  the  Queen’s 
linkmen  and  carriers  were  called  for.  Nelson  told  me  that 
she  kissed  the  King  very  affectionately,  and  promised  to 
see  him  the  next  day.  He  was  positive  about  that,  for 
(being  curious)  I  asked  him  if  he  had  certainly  heard  her 
say  that. 

‘  “  Oh,  yes,”  he  said,  “  and  I’ll  tell  you  why.  The  King 
caught  her  by  the  little  finger  and  held  her.  ‘  Next  day, 
say  you  ?  ’  he  asked  her.  ‘  And  when  will  you  say,  “  This 
night,”  Mary  ?  ’ 

‘  “  She  laughed  and  swung  her  hand  to  and  fro,  and  his 
with  it  that  held  it.  ‘  Soon,’  she  said,  ‘  soon.’  ” 

*  This  is  what  Nelson  told  me :  he  was  never  the  man  to 
have  conceived  that  charming  scene  of  comedy.  Well,  to 
continue,  my  master  was  to  escort  her  Majesty  out  of  the 
house,  the  grooms  going  before  with  torches.  Her  litter 
was  in  Thieves’  Row,  as  you  may  believe  when  you  reflect 
that  our  train  of  gunpowder  extended  down  her  private 
flight  of  steps,  across  the  garden  to  the  door  which  gives 
on  to  Hamilton  House.  All  my  work  lay  on  that  side, 
and  there  I  should  have  been  ;  but  by  some  extraordinary 
mischance  it  happened  that  I  was  just  outside  the  door 
when  my  master  led  her  Majesty  out,  and  so  —  in  a  full 
light  of  torches  —  she  came  plump  upon  me. 

‘  That  was  a  very  unfortunate  incident,  for  I  was  as 
black  as  a  charcoal-burner.  But  there  it  was :  I  came  full 


426 


BK.  Ill 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

tilt  upon  her  and  my  lord,  and  saw  her  face  in  the  light  of 
the  torches  as  fair  and  delicate  as  a  flower,  and  her  eyes 
exceedingly  bright  and  luminous,  like  stars  in  midsummer. 
She  was  whispering  and  laughing  on  my  master’s  arm,  and 
he  (somewhat  distracted)  saying,  “  Ay,  ay,”  in  the  way  he 
has  when  he  is  bothered  and  wishes  to  be  quiet. 

‘  But  at  the  sight  of  me  flat  against  the  wall  she  gave 
a  short  cry,  and  crushed  her  bosom  with  her  free  hand. 
“  O  God  !  O  God !  who  is  this  ?  ” 

4  She  caught  at  my  master’s  arm.  By  my  head,  I  had 
given  her  a  fright  —  just  as  the  colliers  of  old  gave  that 
Count  of  Tuscany  who  thought  they  were  devils  come  to 
require  his  soul,  and  was  converted  to  God,  and  built 
seven  fine  abbeys  before  he  died.  Her  mouth  was  open ; 
she  did  not  breathe ;  her  face  was  all  white,  and  her  eyes 
were  all  black. 

Pardon,  madam,  it  is  I,  your  servant,  poor  French 
Paris,”  I  said  ;  and  my  master  in  a  hurry,  “  There,  ma’am, 
there ;  you  see,  it  is  a  friend  of  ours.” 

‘When  she  got  her  breath  again,  it  came  back  in  a 
flood,  like  to  suffocate  her.  She  struggled  and  fought  for 
it  so,  I  made  sure  she  would  faint.  So  did  my  master, 
who  put  his  hand  behind  to  catch  her  and  save  the  noise 
of  her  fall.  She  shut  her  eyes,  she  tottered.  Oh,  it  was 
a  bad  affair  !  But  she  recovered  herself  by  some  means, 
and  did  her  bravest  to  carry  it  off.  “  Jesu,  Paris,  how 
begrimed  you  are  !  ”  she  said,  panting  and  swallowing ;  and 
my  master  damned  me  for  a  blackguardly  spy,  and  bade 
me  go  wash  myself. 

4  It  is  true  I  was  behind  the  door,  but  most  false  that  I 
was  spying.  God  knows,  I  had  enough  secrets  to  keep 
without  smelling  for  more.  But  that  was  not  a  time  to 
be  justifying  myself.  My  master  took  the  Queen  away 
immediately,  Mistress  Seton  with  her.  Afterwards  I 
heard  my  Lords  Argyll  and  Livingstone  depart  —  but 
not  M.  de  Huntly.  I  saw  him  again  before  I  went  out 
myself. 

4 1  waited  about  until  I  heard  the  King  helped  up  to 
bed  by  his  servants  ;  I  waited  a  long  time.  They  sang  a 
psalm  in  his  chamber,  and  talked  afterwards,  laughing  and 


CH.  VI 


KIRK  O’  FIELD 


427 


humming  airs.  They  had  the  boy  to  amuse  them  with 
fooleries :  Heaven  knows  what  they  did  or  did  not.  I 
thought  they  would  never  finish.  Finally,  I  heard  the 
King  call,  “Good-night  all,”  saw  the  lights  put  out,  and 
made  a  move  at  my  best  pace  to  get  home,  clean  myself, 
and  be  ready  for  the  others.  Going  through  the  garden 
along  the  edge  of  my  powder-train,  I  met  somebody,  who 
called  out,  “  It  is  I,  the  Earl  of  Huntly,”  and  then  said, 
“  Remember  you  of  my  words  ?  It  is  now  past  midnight. 
Fire  nothing  until  you  hear  the  strokes  of  two.  More 
depends  upon  that  than  you  can  understand.  Now  be 
off.”  I  wished  his  lordship  a  good-night,  and  he  replied, 
“Go  you  to  the  devil  with  your  nights.”  So  off  I 
went. 

‘  We  all  made  ready,  and  assembled  in  good  time  at  the 
door  of  our  house  in  the  Cowgate :  my  master,  M.  Hob 
Ormiston,  M.  de  Tala,  M.  de  Bowton,  myself,  Powrie, 
Dalgleish,  and  Patrick  Wilson.  There  may  have  been 
more  —  it  seemed  to  me  that  one  or  another  joined  us  as 
we  went  —  in  which  case  I  know  not  their  names.  We 
went  down  by  the  Blackfriars’  Wynd,  meeting  nobody, 
through  the  Kirk  o’  Field  Port,  and  round  by  the  wall  to 
Hamilton  House.  A  light  was  burning  in  the  upper 
window  of  that  mansion,  and  was  not  extinguished  so  long 
as  I  was  there  (though  they  tell  me  it  was  blown  out  after 
the  explosion);  but  no  man  came  out  to  join  us  at  the 
appointed  place.  Half  the  company  was  stopped  at  the 
corner  of  the  town  wall  by  my  master’s  orders  :  he  himself, 
M.  d’Ormiston,  and  I  went  into  the  garden  ;  and  just  as 
we  entered,  so  well  had  all  been  timed,  I  heard  Saint 
Giles’  toll  the  hour  of  two.  I  lighted  the  train ;  and  then 
we  all  went  back,  joined  the  others  (who  had  seen  nothing 
dangerous  outside  the  wall),  and  returned  by  the  way  we 
had  come  —  no  one  saying  anything.  We  may  have  been 
half  of  the  way  to  the  Gate  —  I  cannot  say  —  when  the 
darkness  was,  as  it  were,  split  asunder  as  by  a  flare  of 
lightning,  one  of  those  sheeted  flames  that  illumines  a 
whole  quarter  of  the  sky,  and  shows  in  the  midst  a  jagged 
core  of  intenser  light.  And  whilst  we  reeled  before  it 
came  the  crash  and  volley  of  the  noise,  as  if  all  Hell  were 


428 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


loosed  about  us.  What  became  of  our  betters  I  know  not, 
nor  what  became  of  any.  For  myself,  I  tell  you  fairly 
that  I  stooped  and  ran  as  if  the  air  above  me  were  full  of 
flying  devils. 

‘  By  some  fate  or  other  I  ran,  not  to  the  city,  but  along 
the  wall  of  the  Blackfriars’  Garden,  a  long  way  past  the 
Gate,  and  lay  down  in  a  sort  of  kennel  there  was  while  I 
fetched  up  my  breath  again.  Then,  not  daring  to  go  back 
to  the  Wynd,  for  I  was  sure  the  whole  town  would  be 
awake,  I  considered  that  the  best  thing  for  me  to  do  was 
to  climb  that  garden  wall,  and  lie  hidden  within  it  until 
the  citizens  had  wondered  themselves  to  sleep.  So  I  did, 
without  difficulty,  and  felt  my  way  through  brakes  and 
shrubberies  into  what  seemed  to  be  an  open  space.  I  lit 
my  lantern,  and  found  myself  in  a  kind  of  trained  arbour, 
oval  or  circular  in  shape,  made  all  of  clipped  box.  In  the 
middle  of  it  were  a  broad  platt  of  grass  and  a  dial :  a  snug 
enough  place  which  would  suit  me  very  well.  It  appeared 
to  me,  too,  that  there  was  a  settle  on  the  far  side,  on  which 
I  could  repose  myself.  Good  !  I  would  lie  there. 

‘  The  path  of  light  made  by  my  lantern  showed  me  now 
another  thing  —  that  I  was  not  the  only  tenant  of  this 
garden.  There  lay  a  man  in  white  midway  of  the  grass. 
“Oho,”  thinks  I,  “I  will  have  a  close  look  at  you,  my 
friend,  before  I  settle  down.”  Peering  at  him  from  my  safe 
distance,  I  saw  that  he  had  another  beside  him  ;  and  made 
sure  that  I  was  on  the  edge  of  an  indiscretion.  If  here  I 
was  in  a  bower  of  bliss,  it  became  me  on  all  counts  to 
withdraw.  But  first  I  must  be  sure :  too  much  depended 
upon  it.  I  drew  nearer  :  the  light  fell  upon  those  two  who 
lay  so  still.  My  heart  ceased  to  beat.  Stretched  out  upon 
that  secret  grass,  with  his  eyes  staring  horribly  into  the 
dark,  lay  the  King  whom  I  had  gone  forth  to  slay  —  stark 
and  dead  there,  and  the  dead  boy  by  his  side.  By  God 
and  his  Mother  !  I  am  a  man  of  experience,  with  no  call 
to  be  on  punctilio  with  dead  men.  But  that  dead  man,  I 
am  not  ashamed  to  say,  made  me  weep,  after  I  had  re¬ 
covered  myself  a  little. 

‘God  has  shown  me  great  mercy.  I  am  not  guilty  of 
the  King’s  death,  nor  is  my  master.  I  should  have  supposed 


CH.  VI 


KIRK  O’  FIELD 


429 


that  my  Lord  Huntly  killed  him,  to  save  the  Queen  from 
deadly  sin,  and  could  then  have  understood  his.  urgent 
instructions  to  me  not  to  go  to  work  before  a  certain  hour. 
If  that  had  been  so,  all  honour  to  him.  I  say,  so  I  should 
have  supposed;  but  one  little  circumstance  made  me 
hesitate.  Near  by,  on  the  same  grass  platt,  I  found  a 
velvet  shoe,  which  I  took  back  with  me  into  town.  It 
was  purchased  of  me  afterwards  by  Monsieur  Archibald 
Douglas,  that  grey-headed  young  man,  for  six  hundred 
crowns  ;  and  I  believe  I  might  have  had  double.  That, 
mind  you,  told  me  a  tale  ! 

<  The  King  had  been  smothered,  I  consider.  There 
were  no  wounds  upon  him  of  any  sort,  nor  any  clothes  but 
his  shirt.  Taylor,  the  boy,  was  naked. 

‘  There,  gentlemen,  you  have  a  relation  of  my  share  in 
these  dark  facts,  told  you  by  a  man  whose  position  (as  you 
may  say)  between  one  world  and  another  is  likely  to  sober 
his  fancy  and  incline  him  to  the  very  truth.’ 

French  Paris,  a  jaunty  dog — with  a  kind  of  brisk,  dog’s 
fidelity  upon  him  which  is  a  better  quality  in  a  rascal  than 
no  fidelity,  or  perhaps  than  dull  fidelity  —  has  very  little 
more  to  say  to  you  and  me. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


Margaret  Carwood,  the  Queen’s  woman,  had  a  tale  to 
tell,  if  she  could  be  got  to  repeat  it.  She  had  undressed 
her  mistress,  who  came  in  exceedingly  late  from  Bastien’s 
masque,  and  put  the  I  bedgown  upon  her:  then  was  the 
time  for  Father  Roche  to  come  in  for  prayers  —  if  any 
time  were  left  which  Carwood  could  not  think  was  the 

case.  Would  her  Majesty,  considering  the  lateness  of  the 
hour,  excuse  his  Reverence  ? 


But  her  Majesty  looked  wildly  at  Carwood  and  began 
to  rave.  ‘  Do  you  think  me  leprous,  Carwood  ?  Am  I  not 
to  be  prayed  with  ?  Why,  this  is  treason !  ’  And  she  con¬ 
tinued  to  shiver  and  mutter,  ‘  Treason  !  Treason  !  ’  until 
the  woman,  terrified,  called  up  the  Chaplain,  and  he  came 
m  with  the  rest  of  the  household  and  began  the  accustomed 
prayers.  Gradually  the  Queen  composed  herself,  and  you 
could  hear  her  voice  —  as  usual  —  above  all  the  others, 
leading  the  responses. 

In  the  midst  of  the  psalms  of  the  hour,  Carwood  said, 
there  struck  on  all  ears  a  dull  thud,  like  the  booming  of 
water  upon  a  rock  in  the  sea ;  the  windows  of  the  house 
shook,  and  litter  was  heard  to  fall  behind  the  wainscot. 
1  hen  complete  silence  —  and  out  of  that,  far  off  in  the  city 
rose  a  low  and  long  wailing  cry,  ‘  as  of  one  hurt  to  death 
and  desolate.  Father  Roche,  who  had  stopped  his  Gloria 
Patn  at  the  first  shock,  when  he  heard  that  cry,  said 
s  arp  y,  O  King  of  Glory,  what’s  that?’  and  stared  at  the 
window,  trembling  like  a  very  old  man ;  and  nobody  else 


430 


CH.  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


43i 


was  much  bolder  than  he.  But  the  Queen,  stiff  as  a  stone 
went  on  where  he  had  left  off,  driving  the  words  out  of 
herself,  higher  and  higher,  faster  and  faster,  until  she 
hnished  on  a  shrill,  fierce  note  :  —  ‘  Sicut  erat  in  principio , 
et  nunc,  et  semper ,  et  in  scecula  sceculorum.  Amen  ’ ;  and 

only  stopped  there  because  it  was  not  her  part  to  beein 
the  next  psalm. 

A  strange  midnight  picture !  There  was  Father  Roche, 
the  old  Dominican,  looking  all  ways  for  danger,  twittering 

efore  the  candles  and  cross ;  there  Des-Essars  on  his 
knees,  with  his  white  face  peaked  and  taut ;  there  poor 
Carwood,  her  apron  over  her  head,  swaying  about;  there 
old  Mother  Reres  spying  wickedly  out  of  the  corners  of 
at.Mary  Livingstone,  stern  as  thunder.  Erskine 
with  his  white  staff  stood  at  the  door,  two  clinging  pages 
about  him ;  in  the  midst,  at  her  faldstool,  the  slim,  fever- 
bright  Queen  in  her  furred  gown,  praying  aloud,  she  alone, 
hke  a  nun  m  ecstasy.  With  Father  Roche  in  extremis , 
Des-Essars  was  the  first  to  relieve  the  strain  by  boldly 
intoning  the  versicle  ;  but  there  were  no  more  prayers. 
Carwood  and  Livingstone  took  the  Queen  to  bed,  and 
Livingstone  stayed  with  her.  Carwood  says  that  she  herself 
slept  ‘like  drowned  weed.’  When  Livingstone  woke  her 
next  morning,  she  heard  the  great  bell  tolling  at  Saint  Giles’. 
She  asked  first  of  the  Queen,  and  was  told  she  was  ‘  quiet.’ 
She  did  not  dare  any  more  questions,  and  remained  until 

midday  inmate  of  the  only  house  in  town  which  did  not 
know  the  news. 

Mary  Livingstone  would  say  nothing  to  any  one :  in 
fact,  so  grim  were  her  looks  that  no  one  cared  to  question 
her.  Lady  Reres  kept  her  chamber.  At  nine  o’clock  the 
Earl  of  Huntly  came  up,  with  a  very  fixed  face,  and  was 
taken  to  the  Queen  s  bedchamber  door  by  Des-Essars,  who 
went  no  farther  himself,  but  hung  about  the  corridor  and 
anteroom  in  case  he  might  be  sent  for.  Before  long  he 
heard  the  Queen  in  distress,  crying  and  talking  at  once,  a 
flood  of  broken  words  ;  and,  whiles,  Lord  Huntly’  s  voice, 
sombre  and  restrained,  ill  calculated  to  calm  her.  Presently 
Mary  Livingstone  opened  the  door,  and  he  heard  the  Queen 
calling  for  him  :  ‘  Baptist,  O  Baptist,  come  —  quick,  quick  !  ’ 


432 


BK.  Ill 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

‘  Go  to  her,’  says  Livingstone  drily ;  ‘  this  is  beyond  my 
powers.’ 

He  ran  into  the  room,  and  saw  her  lying  half-naked  on 
her  bed,  face  downwards,  her  hair  all  over  her  eyes.  She 

looked  like  one  in  mortal  agony. 

‘  O  madam,  O  sweet  madam - ’  he  began,  being  on 

his  knees  before  her. 

She  lifted  her  head.  ‘  Who  calls  me?’ 

She  sat  up,  and  parted  her  hair  from  her  face  with  her 
finger-tips.  He  saw  her  transfigured,  flushed  like  one  with  a 
heat-rash,  and  her  eyes  cloudy  black,  glazed  and  undiscern¬ 
ing.  She  was  in  a  transport  of  feeling,  far  beyond  his 
scope ;  but  she  knew  him,  and  cleared  in  his  sight. 

‘  Baptist,  the  King  is  dead.’ 

‘  Dead,  madam  !  Oh,  alas  !  ’ 

She  gripped  him  by  the  arm  and  steadied  herself  by  it. 
She  read  his  very  soul ;  her  eyes  seemed  to  bite  him.  And 
she  answered  a  question  which  he  had  not  asked. 

‘  How  should  I  know  who  slew  him  ?  How  should  I  ? 

I  know  not — I  do  not  ask — nor  need  you — nor  should  you. 
But  there  is  one  who  had  no  hand  in  it  — be  you  sure  of 
that.  Let  none  call  him  murderer — he  did  nothing  amiss. 
Do  you  hear  ?  Do  you  understand  ?  He  is  clean  as  new 
snow — and  I — and  I — clean  as  the  snow,  Baptist.  O  God  ! 
O  God  !  ’ 

She  loosed  his  arm  and  flung  herself  down,  shaken  to 
pieces  by  her  hard  sobbing.  Her  face  had  been  dry,  her 
eyes  tearless.  If  she  could  not  weep,  he  thought,  it  must 
go  hard  with  her.  Livingstone  came  into  the  room  and 
went  to  her  help.  She  used  no  ceremony,  got  into  the  bed, 
and  drew  the  poor  distraught  creature  to  her  bosom, 
whispered  to  her,  kissed  and  stroked  her,  mothered  her  as 
if  it  were  one  of  her  own  children  she  was  tending.  The 
Queen  clung  to  her.  Lord  Huntly  drew  Des-Essars  aside, 

into  the  embrasure  of  the  window. 

‘  Listen  to  me,  Monsieur  Des-Essars,’  he  said  :  ‘  I  speak 
to  you  because  I  know  that  you  are  in  her  Majesty  s 
confidence.  It  is  very  necessary  that  her  friends  should 
understand  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  My  Lord 
Bothwell  had  no  part  in  the  King’s  death.  It  is  true  he 


CH.  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


433 


intended  it  —  I  do  not  attempt  to  conceal  that  from  you  — 
and  even  that  he  went  farther  than  intent ;  but  the  King 
was  dead  before  he  came.  He  had  his  own  plans,  and  laid 
them  well.  But  there  were  other  plans  of  which  he  had  no 
suspicion.’  Des-Essars  would  have  spoken;  Lord  Huntly 
put  a  hand  over  his  mouth.  ‘  Say  nothing.  Ask  me  not  who 
did  it.  I  was  there,  and  saw  it  done.  I  believe  that  it  was 
just,  and  will  answer  for  my  part  when  it  is  required  of  me.’ 

‘  My  lord,’  said  Des-Essars,  ‘  your  secret  is  safe  with  me. 
I  will  only  say  this  :  If  that  person  of  whom  you  spake 
had  no  part  in  the  deed,  then  she  is  free.’ 

‘  She  is  free,’  said  Huntly,  ‘  I  saw  to  that.’ 

‘  You  saw  to  it  —  you  ?  ’ 

‘  I  saw  to  it.  It  was  I  who  deceived  —  that  person  —  and 
delayed  his  plans.  There  was  a  time,  long  ago,  when  I 
played  her  false.  She  trusted  me,  believing  in  my  honesty, 
and  I  forsook  her.  I  have  never  been  able  to  forgive  my¬ 
self  or  ceased  to  call  myself  traitor  until  now.  And  this 
time,  when  she  has  trusted  me  but  little,  I  have  served  her.’ 

‘  I  hope  you  may  have  served  her,  my  lord,  but - ’ 

‘  Man,’  said  Huntly  sternly,  ‘  what  are  your  hopes 
or  mine  to  the  purpose  in  a  case  of  the  sort  ?  Do  you  not 
know  her  better?  She  would  have  had  him,  had  he  been 
soaked  in  blood.  Well !  now  she  can  have  him  clean.’ 

Des-Essars  knelt  down  and  kissed  the  other’s  hand. 
‘  My  lord,  you  have  given  me  a  schooling  in  great  love. 
If  the  time  comes  when  there  shall  be  need  of  me,  I  hope 
to  prove  myself  your  good  pupil.’ 

‘  Get  up,’  said  Huntly,  not  pleased  with  this  tribute ; 
‘  they  serve  best  who  talk  least.  But  you  may  be  sure 
that  the  time  is  at  hand  when  there  will  be  need  of  more 
than  you  and  me.’  He  looked  sadly  out  of  window,  across 
the  red  roofs,  out  into  the  slowly  brightening  sky.  Des- 
Essars  was  silent. 

They  announced  the  Earl  of  Bothwell.  The  Queen  put 
back  her  hair  and  wiped  her  eyes  —  for  Mary  Livingstone 
had  thawed  her  hard  grief.  She  covered  herself  up  to  the 
neck.  Bothwell  came  in,  with  a  low  reverence  at  the  door, 
and  made  room  for  Livingstone  to  go  out.  She  swept  by 
him  like  a  Queen-mother.  Queen  Mary  beckoned  him  to 


434 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


the  bedside,  and  gave  him  both  her  hands  to  hold.  *  Oh, 
you  have  come  to  me  !  Oh,  you  have  come  to  me  !  ’  was  all 
she  could  say.  She  could  not  speak  coherently  for  her  full 
heart.  He  bent  over  and  kissed  her  ;  and  for  a  time  they 
remained  so,  whispering  brokenly  to  each  other  and  kissing. 

‘  Have  you  heard  Huntly’s  tale  ?  ’  she  asked  him  aloud. 

He  was  now  sitting  composedly  by  her  bed,  one  leg  over 
the  other. 

‘Yes,  yes,  long  ago!  We  have  had  our  talk  together.’ 

She  fingered  the  counterpane.  ‘  Belike  he  told  you  more 
than  I  could  win  of  him.  He  will  name  no  names.’ 

Bothwell  laughed  shortly. 

‘  He  is  wise.  Names  make  mischief.  I  could  wish  his 
own  were  as  well  out  of  that  as  mine  is.  Heard  you  of 
Archie’s  shoe  ?  ’ 

She  had  not.  He  told  her  of  Paris’s  discovery  in  the 
garden  ;  they  both  laughed  at  Archie’s  mishap.  Bothwell 
supposed  it  would  cost  him  five  hundred  crowns  to  redeem. 
We  know  from  Paris  that  it  cost  him  six. 

My  Lord  Bothwell’s  opinion,  which  he  expressed  with 
great  freedom,  was  that  Morton  and  the  Douglases  had 
killed  the  King  soon  after  he  had  been  put  to  bed.  The 
body  had  been  cold  when  Paris  found  it  —  cold  and  stiff. 
Then  there  was  a  woman,  who  had  been  talking  with  her 
neighbours,  and  found  herself  under  examination  in  the 
Tolbooth  before  she  could  end  her  tale.  She  lived  in 
Thieves’  Row.  She  declared,  and  nothing  so  far  had 
shaken  her,  that  a  tick  or  two  after  midnight  she  had  heard 
the  scuffling  of  many  feet  in  the  road,  and  a  voice  which 
cried  aloud,  ‘  Pity  me,  kinsmen,  for  the  love  of  Him  who 
pitied  all  the  world !  ’  She  heard  it  distinctly  ;  but,  being 
in  bed,  and  accustomed  to  hear  such  petitions,  did  not  get 
up,  and  soon  after  fell  asleep.  Also  there  had  been  heard 
a  boy  crying,  ‘  Enough  to  break  your  heart,’  she  said. 
But  it  had  not  broken  her  rest,  for  all  that.  This  was  the 

story,  and -  ‘  Well,  now,’  says  my  Lord  Bothwell, 

‘  what  else  are  you  to  make  of  that  ?  ’ 

Des-Essars,  watching  the  Queen’s  face  under  this 
recital,  saw  the  clouds  gather  for  a  storm.  Lord  Huntly 
had  listened  to  it  with  unmoved  face.  At  the  end  he  said 


CH.  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


435 


gravely,  ‘  He  was  long  dying  ’ ;  and  no  one  spoke  or  moved 
for  some  minutes  until  the  Queen  suddenly  hid  her  face 
and  sobbed,  and  cried  out  that  she  wished  she  herself  were 
dead.  Lord  Bothwell,  at  that,  put  his  arms  about  her 
with  rough  familiarity,  lifted  her  half  out  of  bed  to  his 
own  breast,  kissed  her  lax  lips,  and  said,  ‘  That  wilt  thou 
unwish  within  these  few  days.  What !  when  thou  art  thine 
own  mistress  and  all?  No,  but  thou  wilt  desire  to  live 
rather,  to  be  my  dear  comfort  and  delight.  For  now,  look 
thou,  my  honey-Queen,  thou  and  I  are  to  get  our  bliss  of 
one  another.’  She,  not  responding  by  word  or  sign,  but 
struggling  and  striving  to  be  free  of  his  arms,  presently  he 
put  her  down  again,  and  left  her.  Huntly  followed  him; 
and  they  went  up  to  the  Council,  which  was  set  for  noon. 

‘I  remained  kneeling  by  her,’  says  Des-Essars,  ‘while 
she  lay  without  motion,  until  presently  I  found  that  she 
was  in  a  heavy  sleep.  When  I  went  downstairs  I  heard 
that  Mistress  Livingstone  had  left  the  Court  and  gone  to 
her  husband,  Sempill,  at  Beltrees.’ 

The  silence  of  the  town  during  those  first  few  days  of 
doubt  was  a  terrifying  thing,  enough  to  try  the  nerves  of 
the  stoutest  man  ;  it  drove  the  Queen  to  such  dangerous 
excesses  of  exaltation  and  despondency  that  all  her  friends 
were  on  tenterhooks  to  get  her  away  before  the  storm 
(which  all  knew  must  be  brooding)  should  burst.  For 
what  could  it  portend  but  a  storm,  this  fatal  silence,  this 
unearthly  suspense  of  clamour  and  judgment  ?  It  was  not 
that  the  citizens  merely  held  their  tongues  from  rumour  : 
it  was  more  literally  silence;  they  talked  not  at  all.  If 
you  walked  up  the  Netherbow  or  round  the  porch  of  Saint 
Giles’;  if  you  hung  about  the  Luckenbooths  at  noon  or 
ventured  any  of  the  Wynds  at  sun-setting  —  wheresoever 
you  went  about  Edinburgh,  you  heard  the  padding  of  feet 
sparsely  on  the  flagstones  ;  but  no  voices,  no  hawkers’  cries, 
no  women  calling  their  children  out  of  the  gutters,  nor 
bickering  of  men  in  the  ale-shops,  nor  laughter,  nor  bewail- 
ing.  The  great  houses  were  closely  shut  and  guarded  ;  the 
Lords  of  the  Privy  Council  transacted  their  business  behind 
close  doors  ;  messengers  came  and  went,  none  questioning  ; 


436 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


the  post  came  galloping  down  the  hill  with  a  clatter  which 
you  would  have  thought  enough  to  open  every  window  in 
the  High  Street  and  show  you  every  pretty  girl  at  her  best. 
But  no !  So  long  as  the  King  remained  above  ground, 
Death  kept  his  wrinkled  hand  upon  Edinburgh  and  made 
the  place  seem  like  a  burying-ground,  whose  people  were 
the  mourners,  crouched,  whispering,  against  the  walls  —  and 
all  together  huddled  under  the  cold  spell  of  the  graves. 

This  continued  until  the  day  of  the  funeral,  by  which 
time  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  the  Queen  should  be 
got  away.  She  agreed  —  was  eager  to  go ;  and,  before  she 
went,  saw  the  body  of  the  King,  which  lay  in  the  Chapel 
Royal,  upon  a  tressle  bed,  dressed  up  in  the  gilt  cuirass  and 
white  mantle  which  in  life  it  had  worn  so  bravely.  Mary 
Seton  and  Des-Essars,  who  took  her  in,  were  so  relieved 
to  find  their  anxieties  vain  that  they  had  no  thought  to  be 
surprised.  ‘  Not  only  did  she  stand  and  look  upon  the 
corpse  without  change  of  countenance  or  any  sign  of  distress, 
but  she  had  her  wits  all  at  command.  The  first  thing  she 
said  was,  “  He  looks  nobly  lying  there  so  still :  in  life  he 
was  ever  fidgeting  with  his  person,”  —  which  was  quite  true. 
And  the  next  thing  was,  “  Look  you,  look  you,  he  lies  just 
over  Davy’s  grave !  ”  And  then  she  remembered  that  we 
were  within  one  month  of  the  anniversary  of  that  poor 
wretch’s  undoing  by  this  very  dead  ;  she  reminded  us  of  it. 
Without  any  more  words,  she  remained  there  standing, 
looking  earnestly  at  him  and  round  about  him  ;  and  bade 
one  of  the  priests  who  watched  go  fetch  a  new  candle,  for 
one  was  nearly  spent.  So  far  as  I  could  ascertain,  she  did 
not  kneel  or  offer  any  prayer  ;  and  after  a  time  she  walked 
slowly  away,  without  reverence  to  the  altar  —  a  strange 
omission  in  her  —  or  any  looking  back.  Nor  did  I  ever 
hear  her,  of  her  own  motion,  speak  of  him  again ;  but  he 
became  to  her  as  though  he  had  never  been  —  which,  in  a 
sense  that  means  he  had  touched  or  moved  her,  he  never 
had.  Before  the  funeral  celebrations  she  went  to  my  Lord 
Seton’s  house,  and  there  remained  waiting  until  the  Earl  of 
Bothwell  could  find  time  to  visit  her,  full  of  projects,  very 
sanguine  and  contented.  She  said  to  me  one  day,  “You 
think  my  maids  have  forsaken  me ;  you  grieve  over 


CH.  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


437 


Livingstone  and  Fleming.  Of  the  last  I  say  nothing ;  but 
I  can  fetch  Livingstone  back  to  me  whenever  I  choose. 
You  shall  see.”  And  she  did  it  before  very  long.’ 

On  the  night  following  the  funeral  the  profound  silence 
of  Edinburgh  was  broken  by  a  long  shrill  cry,  as  of  a 
wandering  man.  Several  people  heard  him,  and  shivered 
in  their  beds ;  only  one,  bolder  than  the  rest,  saw  him  in  a 
broad  patch  of  moonlight.  He  came  slowly  down  the 
midst  of  the  Canongate,  flap-hatted  and  cloaked ;  and  as 
he  went,  now  and  again  he  threw  up  his  head  towards  the 
moon,  and  cried,  like  one  calling  the  news,  ‘Vengeance  on 
those  who  caused  me  to  shed  innocent  blood  !  O  Lord, 
open  the  heavens  and  pour  down  vengeance  on  those  that 
have  destroyed  the  innocent !  ’  Upon  the  hushed  city  the 
effect  was  terrible,  as  you  may  judge  by  this,  that  no 
windows  were  opened  and  no  watchman  ventured  to  stop 
the  man.  But  next  morning  there  was  found  a  bill  upon 
the  Cross  which  accused  Bothwell  by  name  of  the  deed. 
It  drew  a  crowd,  and  then,  as  by  one  consent,  all  tongues 
were  loosened  and  all  pens  set  free  to  rail.  The  Queen 
was  not  spared ;  pictures  of  her  as  the  Siren,  fish-tailed, 
ogling,  naked,  malign,  made  the  walls  shameful.  The 
preachers  took  up  the  text  and  shrieked  her  name  ;  and 
every  night  the  shrouded  crier  went  his  rounds.  The  Red 
Bridegroom  was  on  all  tongues,  the  Pale  Bride  in  all  men’s 
thoughts. 

The  Earl  of  Bothwell,  strongly  guarded  as  he  was,  took, 
or  affected  to  take,  no  notice  of  the  clamour ;  but  Archie 
Douglas  became  very  uneasy,  and  induced  his  cousin 
Morton  to  have  the  nightly  brawler  apprehended.  He  was 
therefore  taken  on  the  fourth  night,  and  shut  up  in  a 
pestilential  prison  called  the  Thief’s  Pit,  where  no  doubt  he 
shortly  died.  But  his  words  lived  after  him,  and  he  testified 
through  all  men’s  tongues.  Among  the  many  thousand 
rumours  that  got  about  was  one,  intolerable  to  Bothwell, 
that  the  Earl  of  Moray  was  about  to  return  to  Edinburgh, 
and,  m  the  absence  of  the  Queen ,  act  for  the  general  good  of 
the  realm.  It  was  said  also  that  Morton  was  in  correspond¬ 
ence  with  him,  and  that  it  was  by  his  orders  that  Mr.  James 
Balfour,  parson  of  Fliske,  was  to  be  arrested  and  confined 


438 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


to  his  own  house.  Adding  to  these  things  the  daily  letters 
of  the  Earl  of  Lennox  to  the  Privy  Council,  appealing,  in 
a  father’s  name,  to  the  honour  of  Scotland  ;  adding  also  the 
Queen’s  letters  to  himself,  my  Lord  Bothwell  judged  it  wise 
to  depart  the  town ;  so  went  down  to  her  Majesty  in  the 
country,  to  Lord  Seton’s  house,  where  she  still  lay.  And 
as  he  rode  out  of  town,  close  hemmed  in  the  ranks  of  his 
own  spearmen,  he  heard  for  the  first  time  that  name  which 
had  been  his  ever  since  tongues  began  to  wag :  *  Ay;  there 
he  goes  for  his  wages,  the  Red  Bridegroom.’ 

The  night  of  his  coming,  old  Lady  Reres  made  mischief, 
if  any  were  left  to  be  made ;  for  after  supper,  fiddlers  being  in 
the  gallery,  what  must  she  to  do  but  clap  her  hands  to  them 
and  call  for  a  tune.  ‘  Fiddlers,’  says  she,  ‘  I  call  for  “  Well 
is  me  since  I  am  free  ”  * ;  and  she  got  it  too.  Lord  Both¬ 
well  gave  one  of  his  great  guffaws,  and  held  out  his  hand  at 
the  signal ;  the  Queen  laughed  as-  she  took  it  and  was 
pleased.  They  danced  long  and  late.  But  next  morning 
my  Lord  Seton  made  some  kind  of  excuse,  and  left  his  own 
house,  nor  would  he  come  back  to  it  until  the  Court  had 
removed.  With  him  went  the  Earl  of  Argyll. 

These  departures  were  the  signal  for  the  most  insensate 
revelry  —  led  by  the  Queen,  insisted  upon  by  her,  satisfying 
neither  herself  nor  her  lover,  nor  any  of  her  friends.  Des- 
Essars  and  the  few  faithful  of  the  old  stock  looked  on  as 
best  they  could,  always  in  silence.  Not  one  of  them  would 
talk  to  another,  for  fear  he  should  hear  something  with 
which  he  would  be  forced  to  agree.  Le  Secret  des  Secrets 
is  extremely  reticent  over  this  insane  ten  days,  in  which 
the  Queen — it  must  be  said — was  to  be  seen  (by  those  who 
had  the  heart  to  observe)  wooing  a  man  to  sin  ;  and  when 
he  would  not,  after  torments  of  deferred  desire,  of  mortifica¬ 
tion,  and  of  that  reproach  which  never  fails  a  baffled  sinner, 
springing  hot-eyed  to  the  chase  next  day,  following  him 
about,  wreathing  her  arms,  kissing  and  whispering,  beckon¬ 
ing,  inviting,  trying  all  ways  to  lure  him  on ;  heart-rending 
spectacle  for  any  modest  young  man,  but,  to  a  worshipper- 
at-a-distance  like  our  chronicler,  an  almost  irremediable 
disaster,  since  it  kept  an  open  sore  in  the  fair  image  he  had 
made,  and  showed  him  horrible  people,  with  eyesight  as 


CH.  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


439 


good  as  his  own,  leering  at  it.  Yes  !  French  Paris,  Bastien, 
Carwood,  Joachim,  the  baser  sort — grooms,  valets,  chamber- 
women,  scullions  of  the  kitchen,  saw  his  flame-proud  Queen 
craving,  and  craving  in  vain.  He  ground  his  teeth  over  the 
squalid  comedy.  His  pen  is  as  secret  as  death ;  but  it  is 
said  that,  on  one  occasion,  when  he  had  seen  Bothwell  stalk 
into  the  labyrinth,  and  soon  afterwards  the  Queen,  her  head 
hooded,  steal  lightly  after  him,  the  comments  of  other 
beholders  roused  him  to  vehement  action.  It  is  said  that 
he  heard  chuckling  from  the  base  court,  and  a  ‘  Did  you 
mark  that  ?  She  is  close  on  his  heels  —  a  good  hound  she  !  ’ 
and  saw  two  greasy  heads  hobnobbing.  He  waited,  blink¬ 
ing  his  eyes,  until  one  began  to  whistle  the  ramping  tune 
of  4  O,  gin  Jocky  wad  but  steal  me !  ’  then  flashed  into  the 
court  and  drubbed  a  grinning  cook-boy  within  a  few  inches 
of  his  life.  What  satisfaction  this  just  exercise  may  have 
been  was  spoiled  by  the  reflection  that  the  flogged  rascal 
knew  why  he  had  been  made  to  smart :  enough  to  make 
our  young  knight  cut  off  the  avenging  hand. 

These  things  weighed  and  considered,  I  think  that  what 
little  he  does  say  is  curiously  judicial.  He  remarks  that 
the  Queen  his  mistress,  restless  and  miserable  as  she  was, 
invited  oblivion  by  eating  and  drinking  too  much,  by 
dancing  too  much,  by  riding  too  hard ;  that  she  suffered 
from  want  of  sleep ;  that,  as  for  her  love-affair,  it  was  no 
joy  to  her.  ‘  Hers  was  a  plain  case  of  mental  love.  But 
I  say,  Hum  !  —  where  the  Lover  makes  an  eidolon  of  the 
Beloved,  and  is  happiest  contemplating  that,  adorning  it 
with  flowers  of  fancy,  and  planning  delights  which  can 
only  be  realised  in  solitude,  —  then  the  bodily  presence  of 
the  adored  creature  effectually  destroys  the  image :  a 
seeming  paradox. 

‘Thus,  however,  it  was  with  my  mistress.  Never  was 
man  less  suited  to  lady  than  this  burly  lord ;  never  did 
lady  contrive  out  of  material  so  clumsy  master  of  her 
bosom  so  divine.  But  his  presence  marred  all,  because  it 
led  her  to  indulge  the  monstrous  reality  instead  of  the 
idea.  She  was  generous  to  a  fault  (all  her  faults,  indeed, 
were  due  to  excess  of  nobility),  and  most  injudicious. 
Her  submission  to  him  tempted  him  all  ways  —  to  domineer, 


440 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


to  be  overbearing,  insolent,  a  brute ;  to  treat  her  on 
occasion  as  I  am  very  sure  my  Lady  Bothwell  would 
never  have  allowed  herself  to  be  treated.  But  the  Queen 
bowed  her  head  for  still  greater  ignominy,  although  more 
than  once  I  saw  her  flinch  and  look  away,  as  if,  poor  soul, 
she  turned  quickly,  to  comfort  herself,  from  the  hateful, 
real  Bothwell  of  fed  flesh  to  that  shining  Bothwell  of  her 
heart  and  mind.  In  all  this  she  was  her  own  enemy ;  but 
(by  a  misfortune  two-edged)  in  other  ways  she  contrived 
enemies  for  him.  Thus  it  was  an  act  of  madness  to  make 
him  presents  of  the  late  king’s  stud,  of  his  dogs  and  horse- 
furniture.  She  added  —  O  doting,  most  unhappy  prodigal ! 
—  the  gilt  armour  and  great  golden  casque  with  crimson 
plumes,  by  which  the  dolt  king  had  been  best  known. 
Nothing  that  she  could  have  done  could  have  been  worse 
judged.  Quern  Dens  vult perdere  !  Alas  and  alas  ! 

‘Yet,  I  must  say,  it  is  due  to  my  Lord  Bothwell  to 
remember  that  he  was  now  what  he  had  always  been  — 
not  consciously  cruel,  not  wilful  to  torment  her,  and  by 
no  means  withholding  from  her  what  she  so  sorely  needed 
of  him  by  any  scruples  of  conscience.  Coarse  in  grain  he 
was,  and  candidly  appetent,  but  as  continent  as  Joseph 
when  his  cautionary  side  was  alert;  and,  true  to  his 
nation,  he  was  at  once  greedy  and  cautious.  He  was 
never  one  to  refuse  gratification  to  a  woman  who  loved 
him,  if  by  granting  it  he  could  afford  any  real  gratification 
to  himself.  It  was  a  question  of  the  scales  with  him. 
Now,  in  the  present  state  of  his  ventures  everything  must 
wait  upon  security  :  and  security  was  the  last  thing  he 
had  gained.  He  would  have  pleased  her  if  he  could,  for 
he  was  by  no  means  an  ill-tempered  man,  nor  a  cruel  man, 
unless  his  necessities  drove  him  that  way.  And  just  now 
they  did  drive  him.  His  position  in  Scotland  was  full  of 
peril :  he  was  universally  credited  with  the  King’s  death, 
had  few  friends,  and  could  not  count  upon  keeping  those 
he  had.  In  fine,  everything  that  he  had  consistently 
striven  after  from  the  hour  when  he  first  saw  the  Queen 
at  Nancy  was  just  within  his  grasp.  He  had  climbed  the 
tree  inch  by  inch,  bruised  himself,  scratched  himself,  torn 
his  clothes  to  rags ;  and  now  it  seemed  that  he  hung  by  a 


CH.  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


441 


thread  —  and  the  fruit  could  not  be  plucked  yet.  The  fruit 
was  dropping  ripe,  but  he  dared  not  stretch  out  his  hand 
for  it,  lest  it  should  fall  by  his  shaking  of  the  branch,  or 
he  by  moving  too  soon.  If  either  fell,  he  was  a  dead  man. 
What  wonder  if  he  were  fretful,  gloomy,  suspicious,  full  of 
harsh  mockery  ?  What  wonder,  again,  if  he  seemed  cruel 
in  refusing  to  ease  her  smart  until  his  neck  were  safe  ? 
No,  I  do  not  blame  him.  But  I  curse  the  hour  in  which 
his  mother  bore  him  —  to  be  the  bane  of  his  country  and 
his  Queen.  No  more.’ 

The  Court  returned  to  Edinburgh  upon  the  news  that 
an  Ambassador  Extraordinary  was  come  from  England. 
Although  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  matter  of  his 
errand,  Bothwell  insisted  upon  his  reception.  In  other 
respects  the  Queen  was  glad  to  go.  Her  malady  kept 
her  from  any  rest ;  the  emptiness  of  the  days  aggravated 
it  until  it  devoured  the  substance  of  her  flesh.  She  had 
grown  painfully  thin ;  she  had  a  constant  cough  —  could 
not  sleep,  and  was  not  nourished  by  meat  and  drink. 
Her  eyes  burned  like  sunken  fires,  her  lips  were  as  bright 
as  blood,  but  all  the  rest  of  her  was  a  dead,  unwholesome 
white.  She  said  that  there  was  a  rat  gnawing  at  her  heart. 
In  such  a  desperate  case  it  seemed  to  her  friends  that  the 
murmurs  and  mutterings  of  Edinburgh  could  bring  her  no 
further  harm  :  so  she  went,  entered  in  semi-state,  and  got 
a  fright. 

Her  reception  was  bad :  not  cold,  but  accompanied  by 
the  murmurs  of  a  great  and  suspicious  crowd.  She  heard 
the  name  they  had  for  Bothwell  —  ‘  The  Red  Bridegroom  ’ 
— -half-voiced  with  a  grim  snarl  of  humour  in  the  tone. 
Nothing  was  actually  said  against  herself,  but  she  was 
acutely  sensitive  to  shades  of  difference ;  and  after  riding 
rigidly  down  to  Holyrood,  the  moment  she  had  alighted 
she  caught  Des-Essars  by  the  arm,  and,  ‘You  see  !  You 
see  !  They  hate  me  !  ’ 

But  Mr.  Killigrew,  from  England,  and  the  Earl  of 
Morton,  when  she  summoned  him,  soon  assured  her  that 
what  Scotland  felt  towards  her  was  as  nothing  compared 
to  the  common  abhorrence  of  her  lover. 


442 


BK.  Ill 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

Bothwell  went  away  to  Liddesdale  to  see  his  wife.  It 
is  supposed  that  there  was  an  understanding  between  him 
and  the  Queen,  because  she  made  no  objection  to  his 
going,  and  did  not  fret  in  his  absence.  She  saw  Mr. 
Killigrew  alone,  in  a  darkened  room,  saying:  ‘The  first 
thing  his  mistress,  my  sister,  will  ask  him,  is  of  my  favour 
m  affliction  ;  and  I  know,’ — she  put  her  hand  on  her  bosom 

‘  I  know  how  thin  I  am  become,  and  how  the  tears  have 
worn  themselves  caves  in  my  cheeks;  and  would  not  for 
all  the  world  that  they  in  England  should  know.’  The 
audience  lasted  half-an-hour ;  and  when  Mr.  Killigrew  left 
Holyrood,  he  went  to  Lord  Morton’s  house.  Thence,  it 
was  afterwards  found  out,  he  made  a  journey  to  Dunkeld 
and  paid  a  two  days’  visit  to  the  Earl  of  Moray.  There  is 
no  doubt  he  went  back  full  charged  to  England. 

Des-Essars  gleaned  all  the  news  he  could.  He  told  the 
whole  to  Huntly,  to  the  Queen  what  he  must.  The  town 
was  full  of  dangerous  ferment,  which  at  any  moment  might 
burst  out.  Most  of  the  lords  were  in  the  country ;  most  of 
them  were,  or  had  been,  at  Dunkeld:  Seton,  Argyll,  Atholl 
Lindsay,  Morton,  Mar  had  all  conferred  with  Moray.  What 
had  they  to  say  to  him  ?  What,  above  all,  had  Morton  to 
say  to  him  — Morton,  who  had  killed  the  King?  When 
Huntiy  had  this  question  put,  and  could  find  no  answer  to 
it,  he  went  directly  to  the  Queen  and  advised  her  to  send 
tor  her  brother.  She  hated  the  necessity,  but  allowed  it 
Meanwhile,  the  King’s  father,  old  Lennox,  wrote  daily 
letters  to  her  and  to  the  Council,  crying  vengeance  on  the 
murder.  He  did  not  hesitate,  in  writing  to  the  lords,  to 

nif  Tala>  an<^  Ormiston  as  the  murderers ;  and 

they  did  not  hesitate. to  repeat  his  charges  to  the  Queen. 

Lady  Reres,  delighting  in  mischief,  underscored  the 
names  m  red  whenever  she  could.  The  Queen  was 
furious.  ^ 

*  -^e  *s  innocent  of  all  —  I  know  it  for  a  truth.  Who 

accuses  my  Lord  of  Bothwell  accuses  me.  It  is  rank 
treason.’ 

These  sort  of  speeches  cannot  acquit  a  man,  and  may 
convict  their  speaker.  J 

Then  my  Lord  Moray,  in  a  courteous  letter,  excused 


CH.  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


443 


himself  from  attendance  upon  his  sovereign  at  this  con¬ 
juncture.  His  health,  he  regretted  to  say,  was  far  from 
good,  or  he  should  not  have  failed  to  obey  her  Majesty. 
The  Queen  was  much  put  about.  Send  a  peremptory 
summons  to  the  Earl  of  Morton,  says  Huntly;  she  did  it 
without  question.  Morton  came  on  the  night  of  8th  March, 
and  Des-Essars,  who  saw  him  ride  into  the  courtyard 
at  the  head  of  a  troop  in  his  livery,  remembered  that  on 
the  same  night  a  year  ago  he  and  these  pikemen  of  his  had 
been  masters  of  Holyrood.  What  a  whirligig !  Masters 
of  Holyrood ;  then  outwitted,  ruined,  and  banished ;  now 
back  in  favour,  and,  by  the  look  of  them,  in  a  fair  way  to 
be  masters  again.  The  bluff  lord  had  the  masterful  air; 
the  way  in  which  he  announced  himself  seemed  to  say, 
‘  Oh,  she’ll  see  me  quick  enough !  She  hath  need  of  me, 
look  you  !  ’  He  was  very  much  at  his  ease  —  cracked  his 
jokes  with  Erskine  all  the  way  upstairs,  and,  meeting 
Lethington  at  the  head  of  them,  asked  after  his  new  wife, 
with  a  gross  and  somewhat  premature  rider  to  the  general 
question. 

She  sent  for  her  young  confidant  when  the  audience  was 
over,  and  greeted  him  with,  ‘  Now,  foolish  boy,  you  shall 
be  contented.  He  is  fast  for  us  —  will  say  nothing  if  we 
say  nothing.’ 

‘  Oh,  madam,  did  he  seek  to  bargain  with  your 
Majesty  ?  ’ 

She  laughed.  ‘  No,  no  !  Nor  did  I  cross  his  palm  with 
earnest-money.  But  there  would  have  been  no  harm.’ 

‘  Madam,’  he  said,  ‘  you  shall  forgive  me  for  saying  that 
there  would  have  been  much.  It  is  not  for  the  prince  to 
compound  with  treason,  nor  for  a  noble,  innocent  lady  to 
traffic  with  the  guilty.’ 

She  stopped  his  mouth,  her  hand  upon  it.  ‘Hush,  thou 
foolish  boy  !  What  treason  did  he  do  ?  To  set  me  free  — 
is  this  treason  ?  To  rid  me  of  my  tyrant  —  was  this  guilt  ?  ’ 

He  hung  his  head,  and  she  watched  his  confusion  ;  then, 
repenting,  stroked  his  face,  murmuring,  ‘  Foolish  boy ! 
Fond  boy  !  Fond  and  foolish  both  —  to  love  a  lover!  ’ 

She  told  him  a  secret.  She  had  heard  two  women 
talking  beyond  the  garden  wall.  They  spoke  laughingly 


444 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


together  of  the  Red  Bridegroom  —  ‘and  of  me,  Baptist,  they 
spake  somewhat.’ 

‘  I  know,  I  know  !  Tell  me  no  more.’ 

‘  Of  me  they  spake,’  she  went  on.  ‘  “  Bothwell’s 

wench,”  they  said,  “  Bothwell’s - ’” 

He  caught  at  her  wrist.  ‘  Stop  !  I  will  not  hear  you ! 
I  shall  kill  myself  if  you  say  that  word !  ’ 

She  swung  her  hand  to  and  fro,  and  his  with  it,  which 
held  her  so  fast.  ‘  The  word,’  she  said,  ‘  is  nothing  without 
the  thing  —  and  the  thing  is  not  true.  I  would  that  it 
were !  Do  you  set  so  much  store  by  names  and  framed 
breaths  and  idle  ceremonies,  and  call  yourself  my  lover  ? 
Do  you  tell  me  to  my  face  that  if  I  called  you  to  come  to 
me,  to  stretch  open  your  two  arms  and  clasp  me  within 
them,  and  to  fly  with  me  this  world  of  garniture  and 
bending  backs  and  wicked  scheming  heads,  and  abide 
night  and  morning,  through  noon-heat  and  evening  glow 
and  the  secrets  of  long  nights  under  the  watching  stars, 
fast  by  my  side,  with  our  mouths  together  and  our  hearts 
kissing,  and  our  two  souls  molten  to  one  —  do  you  tell  me 
now  that  you  would  deny  me  ?  Answer  you.’ 

He  faced  her  steadfastly.  ‘  I  do  say  so.  I  should  deny 
you.  I  serve  God,  and  honour  you.  How  should  I  dare 
do  you  dishonour  ?  ’ 

She  was  very  angry  —  shook  him  off.  ‘  Leave  my  wrist. 
How  do  you  presume  to  hold  your  Queen  ?  Leave  me 
alone  !  You  insult  me  by  look  and  word.’ 

He  left  her  at  once,  but  she  sent  for  him  early  next 
morning  and  easily  made  amends. 

Driven  to  it  at  last,  on  the  24th  of  the  month  she  wrote 
to  old  Lennox  that  Bothwell  should  be  tried  by  his  peers. 
She  did  it  partly  because  Huntly  advised  it  as  the  only 
possible  way  to  stop  the  growing  clamour,  but  much  more 
because  she  wanted  Bothwell  back.  He  had  been  with  his 
wife  all  the  month ;  Huntly  also  had  been  there  more  than 
once  —  Adam  Gordon,  old  Lady  Huntly.  A  family  coun¬ 
cil  was,  perhaps,  in  the  nature  of  the  case;  but  all  the 
members  of  that  had  returned  a  week  ago,  and  why  should 
he  remain  ?  Why,  indeed,  if  (as  all  Scotland  believed)  he 
had  gone  to  urge  divorce  upon  his  Countess  ?  So  the  excuse 


CH.  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


445 


was  made  to  serve  :  he  was  formally  summoned ;  returned 
to  town  on  the  28th ;  made  public  entry  with  an  imposing 
force  of  his  friends  and  adherents ;  kissed  the  Queen’s 
hand  in  all  men’s  sight,  and  on  the  same  day  sat  at  the 
Council  board,  and  discussed  with  the  others,  who  were  to 
try  him,  the  precedents  for  his  own  trial.  This  was  no 
way  to  satisfy  Lennox  or  Edinburgh. 

The  assize  was  fixed  for  12th  April.  On  the  7th  of 
that  month  the  Earl  of  Moray  left  Scotland  without  leave 
asked  or  leave-taking  of  the  Queen.  He  stayed  a  day  at 
Berwick,  and  had  a  long  conference  with  the  English 
Warden,  then  took  ship  and  sailed  for  France.  This 
should  have  given  her  pause,  and  did  for  a  day  or  two ; 
but  to  a  craving  nymph,  stalking  gauntly  the  waste  places, 
what  matters  but  the  one  thing  ?  It  made  Des-Essars 
serious  enough,  and  put  French  Paris  in  a  dreadful  fright. 
His  master,  he  said,  ‘  was  fool  enough  to  be  glad  at  his 
going;  but  the  Queen  knew  better.  M.  Des-Essars  told 
me  that  she  wept,  and  would  have  sent  messengers  after 
him  to  get  him  back  if  she  could.  Ah,  and  she  was  right ! 
For  when  yet  did  that  lord’s  departure  betoken  her  any¬ 
thing  but  harm  ?  Never,  never,  never  !  ’  says  French  Paris. 

The  trial  itself  was  a  form  from  beginning  to  end,  with 
the  Queen  a  declared  partisan,  and  the  assize  packed  with 
her  friends  or  his.  My  lord  rode  down  to  it  as  to  a 
wedding;  he  rode  one  of  the  dead  king’s  horses  —  rode  it 
gaily  ;  and  as  he  departed  he  looked  up  at  the  window  and 
waved  his  hat,  and  all  men  saw  the  flutter  of  the  Queen’s 
white  handkerchief ;  and  some  say  that  she  herself  was  to  be 
seen  smiling  and  nodding  to  him.  Certain  it  is  that  when 
he  was  cleared — a  matter  of  a  few  hours  —  and  came  out 
into  the  light  of  day  and  the  face  of  a  huge  crowd,  which 
blocked  the  street  from  side  to  side,  he  was  met  by 
Lethington,  bareheaded,  and  by  Melvill,  bowing  to  the 
earth,  and  by  the  concourse  with  a  chill  and  rather  terrible 
silence.  One  shrill  cry  went  up  in  all  that  quiet,  and  one 
alone.  ‘  Burn  the  hure  !  *  was  shrieked  by  a  woman,  but 
instantly  hushed  down,  and  nothing  was  heard  after  it 
but  the  trampling  of  horses  as  Bothwell’s  troop  went  by. 
When  the  Queen  met  him  at  the  foot  of  the  palace  stairs, 


446 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


he  went  down  on  his  knees ;  but  many  saw  the  smile  that 
looped  up  his  mouth.  She  was  very  much  moved,  could 
not  say  more  than,  ‘  Get  up — come — I  must  speak  with  you.’ 

He  went  upstairs  with  her  —  they  two  alone.  The 
courts  and  yards  of  Holyrood  were  like  a  camp. 

Such  a  state  of  things  might  not  last  for  long.  Both- 
well  could  not  go  out  of  doors  alone.  Even  in  companv 
his  hand  was  always  at  his  dagger,  his  eye  for  ever  casting 
round,  probing  corners  for  ambushes,  searching  men’s  faces 
for  signs  of  wavering  or  fixed  purpose.  Strong  man  as 
he  was,  circumstances  were  too  many  for  him :  he  told 
Paris  one  day  that  he  was  ‘near  done.’ 

‘Sir,’  says  Paris,  ‘and  so,  I  take  leave  to  say,  is  the 
Queen’s  majesty.  If  your  lordship  is  for  the  seas - ’ 

‘  Damn  you,  I  am  not !  ’  said  Bothwell. 

#  He  considered  the  case  as  closely  as  ever  anything  in 
his  life,  for  he  was  engaged  in  a  great  game.  He  consulted 
one  or  two  men— Melvill,  Lord  Livingstone,  his  leering 
old  uncle  of  Orkney.  He  sounded  Morton,  Argyll,  Bishop 
Lesley  (as  he  now  was  become) ;  and  then  he  gave  a  sup¬ 
per  at  Ainslie’s,  opened  his  plans,  and  got  their  promises  to 
stand  by  him.  He  wrote  these  out  and  made  them  sign. 
This  was  on  19th  April,  and  that  night  he  certainly  saw 
the  Queen.  I  say  ‘certainly’  because  Des-Essars,  who 
was  with  her  afterwards,  was  told  by  her  that  ‘  her  lord  ’ 
had  gone  into  Liddesdale  to  harry  the  reivers.  Something 
in  her  tone  —  he  could  not  see  her  eyes  —  made  him  doubt 
her:  a  little  something  made  him  suspect  that  she  intended 
him  to  doubt. 

So,  ‘Reivers,  ma’am!’  he  cried.  ‘Is  this  a  time  to 
consider  the  lifting  of  cattle,  when  yourself  and  him  are  in 
danger,  and  no  man  knows  when  the  town  may  rise  ?  ’ 

Her  answer  was  an  odd  one.  She  was  sitting  in  a  low 
chair  by  the  wood  fire,  leaning  back,  looking  at  the  red 
embers  through  her  fingers.  Before  she  spoke  she  lowered 
her  head,  as  if  to  put  her  face  in  shadow,  and  looked  up  at 
him  sideways.  He  saw  the  gleam  of  one  eye,  the  edge  of 
her  cheek  where  the  light  caught  it.  As  he  read  her,  she 
was  laughing  at  him. 

‘  More  may  be  lifted  than  cattle  by  these  wild  men  of 


CH.  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


447 


the  Border.  I  am  going  to  Stirling  in  two  days’  time,  and 
maybe  we  shall  meet,  my  lord  and  I.’ 

He  asked  her  calmly  —  accustomed  to  her  way  of  declar¬ 
ing  certainties  as  possibilities  —  was  such  a  meeting  ar¬ 
ranged  for  ?  ‘  Come  to  me,  child,’  she  said  (though  he  was 

not  a  child),  and  when  he  obeyed,  ‘  Kneel  by  my  side.’ 
She  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  in  a  sisterly  fashion,  and 
said,  ‘  You  shall  be  with  me  to  Stirling,  and  again  when  we 
depart  from  Stirling.  You  forget  not  that  you  are  my 
brother?  Well,  then,  brother,  I  say  to  you,  Leave  me 'not 
now,  for  the  time  is  at  hand  when  I  shall  need  you.  I 
believe  I  am  to  be  made  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world, 
and  need  you  to  share  my  joy  as  much  as  ever  you  did  my 
sorrow.  Hereafter,  for  many  days,  I  may  have  no  time  to 
speak  privately  with  you.  Kiss  me,  therefore,  and  wish 
me  happy  days  and  nights.’ 

He  kissed  her,  wondering  and  fearing.  ‘  Oh,’  he  said, 
‘bethink  you  what  you  are  about!  I  beg  of  you  to  speak 
with  my  lord  of  Huntly  in  this  business  of  Stirling.’ 

She  said,  ‘  It  is  done.  I  have  spoken  with  him  :  he  was 
here  but  an  hour  gone.  And  I  have  Lethington  on  my 
side,  and  Mary  Livingstone  and  Fleming  will  both  be  with 
me.’  She  laughed  at  her  thoughts  ;  not  for  a  long  time  had 
her  old  malicious  gaiety  been  upon  her.  ‘  I  knew  that  I 
could  win  back  Livingstone.  Guess  you  how  I  did  it.’ 
And  when  he  could  not,  or  would  not,  she  whispered  in 
his  ear,  ‘  She  believes  I  am  with  child  by  the  King.’ 

Des-Essars  had  nothing  to  say,  but  she  kept  him  by 
her,  talking  of  her  life  about  to  begin,  her  joy  and  pride, 
love,  duty,  privilege,  in  a  way  so  innocent  and  candid,  she 
might  have  been  a  child  at  play.  The  hours  were  small 
when  he  bade  her  good-night,  and  she  said  laughingly, 

‘  Yes,  go  now.  I  shall  be  wise  to  sleep  while  I  may.’ 

As  he  went  he  stretched  out  his  arms,  let  them  fall,  and 
shrugged  his  young  shoulders  —  gestures  all  of  despair. 

Where  all  was  prepared  beforehand  it  was  not  hard  to 
forecast  the  turn  of  events.  It  fell  out  much  as  Des-Essars 
had  reasoned  it  over  to  himself.  Upon  a  fresh  spring 
morning  of  flitting  clouds  and  dancing  grasses,  the  Queen’s 
party,  rounding  the  shoulder  of  a  green  hill,  was  suddenly 


448 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


advised  of  a  company  of  horsemen,  advancing  at  a  leisurely 
trot,  at  some  quarter  mile’s  distance.  One  could  look  upon 
what  followed  as  at  a  play;  for  it  may  be  taken  for  truth 
that  not  a  man,  soldier  or  other,  so  much  as  swept  the 
uplands  with  his  eye,  so  conscious  was  he  that  a  play 
indeed  it  was !  The  oncoming  troop  was  observed  in 
silence ;  in  silence,  without  word  of  command  or  lifted 
hand,  each  halted  at  a  spear’s  throw.  The  Earl  of  Both- 
well,  with  two  lieutenants,  rode  forward,  baring  his  head 
as  he  came.  Nobody  of  the  Queen’s  men  went  out  to  meet 
him  ;  nobody  hailed  him  ;  nobody  moved  to  safeguard  the 
Queen,  who  herself  sat  motionless  upon  her  little  white 
jennet,  in  the  forefront  of  her  escort,  Mary  Livingstone 
on  one  side  of  her  and  Mary  Fleming  on  the  other.  The 
Earl  came  to  her  side,  reining  up  short  as  his  stirrup 
clicked  against  hers. 

‘  Madam,  for  your  Grace’s  protection  and  honour  I  am 
come  to  lead  you  to  a  safe  hold.  I  beseech  your  Majesty 
take  it  not  amiss  in  one  who  desires  above  all  things  to 
serve  you.’ 

The  Queen,  in  a  very  low  voice,  replied,  ‘  Lead  me,  sir, 
according  to  your  good  judgment.’ 

He  took  up  the  rein  of  her  horse,  wheeled,  and  led  her 
away  to  his  own  troop,  no  one  staying  him.  Mary  Living¬ 
stone  whipped  after  her,  Mary  Fleming  followed.  Then 
the  Earl  of  Huntly,  looking  round  upon  the  remnant,  free 
there  and  armed  upon  the  road,  said  in  measured  tones, 

‘  Follow,  sirs,  since  it  seems  we  are  prisoners.’ 

If  play  it  was,  it  was  not  even  played  properly,  but  had 
been  reduced  to  a  spiritless  rite.  Yet,  as  Des-Essars  has 
the  wit  to  remark,  to  the  Queen  the  whole  had  been  an  act 
of  very  beautiful  symbolism.  He  had  noticed,  as  no  one 
else  did,  the  gesture  with  which  she  gave  herself  up  —  her 
opened  palms,  bowed  head,  good  eyes,  at  once  trusting  and 
thankful.  Ah  !  she  had  been  immodest  once  in  her  dire 
need,  panting,  blowsed,  scratched,  dishevelled  by  her  ardent 
chase.  He  had  seen  her  so,  and  shuddered.  But  now  she 
was  modest,  but  now  she  had  regained  virginity.  A  folded 
maid  sought  in  marriage  by  a  man,  she  had  bowed  her 
head.  ‘  Lead  me,  sir,  according  to  your  good  judgment !  ’ 


CH.  VII 


THE  RED  BRIDEGROOM 


449 


Thus  Des-Essars,  fond  lover !  It  is  safe  to  assert  that  he 
was  alone  in  discerning  these  fine  things,  as  the  lining  of  a 
very  vulgar  business. 

The  moment  he  had  the  Queen  at  Dunbar,  which  was 
reached  by  nightfall,  my  lord  dismounted  her  and  took  her 
away.  Led  by  his  hand,  she  went  without  a  word  to 
her  women,  without  any  looking  back.  The  rest  of  the 
company  was  left  to  shift  as  best  it  could.  There  were 
meat  and  drink  on  the  spread  tables  ;  there  may  have  been 
beds  or  there  may  not.  The  Queen  was  no  more  seen. 

Sir  James  Melvill  made  an  effort,  let  off  a  quip  or  two, 
ruminated  aloud  in  an  anecdotic  vein,  rallied  Lethington, 
flattered  Huntly,  felt  himself  snubbed  and  knew  that  he 
deserved  it,  but  waived  off  the  feeling  with  his  ‘  H’m,  h’m  !  * 
and  recovered  his  dignity.  Huntly  gloomed  upright;  Des- 
Essars  was  bent  double,  head  in  hands  ;  Lethington  walked 
up  and  down  the  hall,  marking  with  his  eye  flagstones 
upon  which  he  must  alight  at  every  step,  or  be  ruined. 
To  watch  his  mad  athletics  made  his  gentle  wife  grieve 
and  Mary  Sempill  rage.  Most  of  Bothwell’s  men  were 
asleep ;  Ormiston  was  drunk ;  Hob,  his  brother,  was  both. 
Gradually  silence,  which  had  been  fitful,  became  universal ; 
and  then  they  heard  the  wind  moaning  round  the  great 
house  and  the  sea  beating  at  the  black  rock  on  which  it 
stands.  The  casements  shook,  doors  far  off  slammed  again 
and  again,  gulls  and  kittiwakes  screamed  as  they  swept  to 
and  fro  over  the  strand ;  and  as  the  doomed  company  sat 
on  in  the  dark  listening  to  all  this,  and  some  thinking  with 
horror  of  what  could  be  doing  between  those  two  in  the 
vast  wind-possessed  house,  and  some  with  pity  welling  like 
blood,  and  some  shamefully,  and  some  with  wisely  nodding 
heads  —  presently,  when  the  shrilling  of  the  birds  grew 
piercingly  loud,  one  of  these  banged  against  the  window, 
and  fought  there  at  the  glass,  battling  with  wings  of  panic. 

Mary  Sempill  rose  with  a  shriek.  ‘  O  God,  save  her ! 
O  God,  save  her !  ’  She  was  thinking  of  her  Queen. 

Nobody  moved  except  Mary  Fleming,  who  felt  out  the 
way  to  her  and  put  arms  about  her. 

Thus  the  night  went  on. 


450 


BK.  Ill 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 

In  the  morning  Paris  came  down  and  said  that  her 
Majesty  desired  to  see  Mistress  Sempill.  She  was  taken 
up,  and  found  the  Queen  in  bed  in  a  darkened  room.  She 
walked  to  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  looked  down,  seeing 
little.  The  Queen  lay  still,  one  of  her  bare  arms  out  of 
bed ,  this  arm  she  slowly  raised  and  touched  her  Living¬ 
stone  s  cheek,  then  dropped  it  again  heavily. 

But  her  Livingstone  had  now  recovered  herself,  and 
could  afford  to  be  cynical. 

‘  Well  —  Honeypot  ?  ’  said  she. 

‘  Empty/  said  the  Queen. 

Then  her  Livingstone  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 

French  Paris  took  a  letter  to  Lady  Both  well  from 
Dunbar,  as  he  thinks,  on  the  day  after  the  ravishing :  he 
fixes  his  date  from  the  fact  that  Sir  James  Melvill 
happened  to  tell  him  that  it  was  his  birthday,  the  25th 
of  April. 

‘  Not  the  first  I  have  spent  in  durance,  my  good  fellow,’ 
the  genial  gentleman  had  added,  ‘  although  I  tell  you  can¬ 
didly  that  it  is  the  first  wedding-night  —  so  to  call  it  —  at 
which  I  have  assisted  in  such  a  place.’ 

Paris  would  have  prolonged  so  interesting  a  conversation 
if  his  master  had  not  been  waiting  to  be  dressed.  As  it 
was,  he  excused  himself  and  hurried  up  to  his  duties ;  which 
done,  my  lord  handed  him  a  letter,  saying,  ‘  Deliver  this 
safely,  at  your  peril ;  and  remember  also  that  whatsoever 
my  lady  shall  ask  you,  she  is  to  have  a  full  answer.’ 

‘Your  lordship  may  count  upon  me,’  says  the  valet, 
hoping  with  all  his  heart  that  she  would  not  tax  his 
countenance  too  far.  Leaving  the  room,  he  was  recalled. 

‘One  thing  more,  Paris.  Your  mistress  will  give  you 
a  coffer  for  me.  Guard  it  well,  as  you  value  your  neck ; 
for,  trust  me,  if  you  come  not  home  with  that  intact,  I  will 
run  you  down  though  you  were  in  the  bury  of  Hell.’ 

‘  Rest  easy,  my  lord,’  said  Paris  superbly,  ‘  rest  easy 
here,  and  disport  yourself  as  seems  good  to  your  wisdom ; 
for  certainly  I  shall  never  fail  you.  Nor  have  I  ever,’ 
added  the  poor  complacent  rogue,  and  took  the  thought 
with  him  up  the  gallows  ladder. 

45 1 


452 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


It  is  a  singular  thing  that  Bothwell  knew  his  wife  so 
little  as  to  provide  against  a  line  of  conduct  which  she 
could  never  have  taken.  According  to  Paris,  she  asked 
him  no  awkward  questions  at  all,  but  read  her  letter  calmly, 
dipping  a  toast  in  white  wine  and  whey  as  she  read.  At 
the  end,  after  musing  a  while,  looking  extremely  handsome, 
she  said :  ‘  My  lord,  I  see,  makes  no  mention  how  long 
he  remains  at  Dunbar.  Knowest  thou  anything  to  the 
purpose  ?  ’ 

Nothing  awkward  here;  but  Paris  blundered  it.  4  Oh, 
my  lady,’  he  says,  conscious  of  his  red  face,  4  I  suppose 
his  lordship  will  stay  out  the  moon.’ 

4  What  hath  he  to  do  with  the  moon,  or  the  moon  with 
him,  fool  ?  ’  said  the  Countess ;  and  soon  afterwards  sent 
him  away,  as  without  any  value  for  her. 

One  can  picture  him  then  in  the  kitchen  quarters  — 
jaunty,  abounding  in  winks  and  becks;  or  with  the  grooms 
in  the  stables  —  what  conversations  !  The  play,  dragged 
by  the  weary,  high  players,  must  have  quickened  when 
the  clowns  tumbled  through  it. 

Next  day  my  lady  had  him  up  again  to  her  chamber 
and  gave  him  letters  for  Edinburgh :  a  large  packet  for  a 
notary,  one  Balnaves  or  Balneaves,  another  for  the  Arch¬ 
bishop’s  Grace  of  Saint  Andrews  at  Hamilton  House. 

4  Deliver  these  with  speed,  Paris,  and  come  back  to  me 
—  but  not  here.  I  shall  be  at  Crichton  expecting  you  — 
and  give  you  a  packet  for  my  lord.’ 

This  is  how  Paris  learned  that  process  of  divorce  was 
begun.  He  dates  it  the  26th-27th  April. 

Demure,  wide-eared  scamp !  he  was  not  idle  in  town,  I 
assure  you ;  but  ran  from  cawsey  to  cawsey,  from  tavern- 
parlour  to  still-room,  into  all  churches,  chapels,  brothels, 
about  the  quays  of  Leith,  up  and  down  the  tenement  stairs, 
spying,  watching,  judging,  and  remembering.  He  was 
most  amazed  at  the  preachers,  whose  licence  to  talk  ex¬ 
ceeded  all  bounds  of  belief.  There  was  one  Cragg,  well 
named  for  a  rock-faced,  square-hewn  man,  colleague  of  Mr. 
Knox’s:  to  listen  only  to  this  firebrand!  This  Cragg  — 
Paris  heard  him  —  rocked  screaming  and  sweating  over 
the  brink  of  his  pulpit,  and  hailed  his  Queen  a  Jezebel, 


CH.  VIII 


THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 


453 


a  Potiphar’s  wife,  a  strumpet  of  the  Apocalypse.  ‘  And 
I  could  have  wrung  his  brazen  neck  for  him,’  said 
Paris,  ‘  but  that  all  the  people  stood  packed  about  him 
murmuring  their  agreement.  It  would  have  been  my 
death  to  have  declared  myself  —  and  I  was  vowed  to  return 
to  my  lord.’ 

The  city  seemed  to  be  in  the  governance  of  the  Earl  of 
Morton,  unsuspected  of  any  hand  in  the  late  crime,  and  of 
Lord  Lindsay,  whom  all  hot  gospellers  loved.  Close  in 
with  them  was  Grange —  Kirkcaldy  of  Grange — a  very  busy 
man,  Marshal  of  the  City,  Captain  of  the  Guard,  who  kept 
surveillance  of  Holyrood  and  the  lower  town.  Paris  per¬ 
ceived  that  he  was  lieutenant  to  Lord  Morton,  a  cultivable 
person  if  willing  to  be  cultivated.  About  his  doors,  every 
day  and  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  he  saw  messengers  stand 
with  horses  ready.  Now  and  again  one  would  come  out 
with  his  despatches  bound  upon  him,  mount  and  ride  off  — 
south,  north,  west.  Similarly,  others  came  in,  white  with 
dust,  and  delivered  up  their  charges  to  the  porter  at  the 
door.  Paris,  never  without  resource,  inquired  into  the 
matter,  and  found  out  with  whom  Grange  corresponded. 
With  my  Lord  of  Atholl  at  Perth  !  With  my  Lord  of 
Moray  in  Paris  !  With  Mr.  Secretary  Cecil  in  London  ! 
Why,  this  was  treasonable  stuff,  hanging  stuff,  as  he  told 
his  informant  —  Gavin  Douglass,  body-servant  to  Mr. 
Archie  of  the  name  —  who  knew  it  as  well  as  he  did. 

‘  Oh,  ay,  you  make  up  your  mind  to  the  treason  o’t, 
Paris,’  says  Gavin;  ‘but  I  recommend  you  let  not  my 
master  catch  you  in  this  town.  You  have  had  six  hundred 
gold  crowns  of  his  for  the  price  of  an  old  shoe — he  has 
never  ceased  to  talk  of  it,  believe  me.  No  later  than 
yesterday  he  was  at  it,  saying  that  pretty  soon  he  could 
afford  to  give  all  his  clothing  to  the  world  and  stand  up 
mother-naked  as  he  was  born,  and  be  none  the  worse. 
“And  to  think,”  says  he,  “to  think  I  could  be  such  a 
custard-faced  loon  as  to  buy  back  my  slipper  from  a  rogue 
I  shall  be  hanging  in  a  week,”  ’ 

Paris  was  indignant  and  hurt.  ‘  I  can  see,’  he  said,  ‘  that 
the  lords  of  Scotland  are  at  their  favourite  game  of  beggar- 
my-neighbour.  Dien  de  Dieu  !  what  else  could  we  have 


454 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


expected?  Your  Scotch  way:  roguery  upon  roguery, 
thieves  on  thieves’  backs,  traitors  who  betray  their  co¬ 
traitors  —  hogs  and  rats,  one  and  all !  ’ 

He  left  Edinburgh  much  alarmed  at  the  state  of  its 
affairs,  determined  to  be  done  with  the  Countess  at 
Crichton  and  back  again  in  Dunbar  as  soon  as  might  be ; 
but,  greatly  to  his  annoyance,  her  ladyship,  being  busy  with 
her  law  business,  kept  him  four  or  five  days  kicking  his 
heels  :  it  was  the  4th  of  May  before  she  delivered  him  her 
packet.  That  was  a  coffer,  strongly  bound  and  clamped 
with  iron,  locked  and  sealed. 

At  the  moment  of  his  going  Lady  Bothwell  said 
to  him,  4  Tell  my  lord,  Paris,  that  this  day  he  and  I 
are  free  of  each  other ;  tell  him  that  here  I  am  and  here 
remain.’ 

Paris,  always  the  servant  of  a  fine  woman,  knelt  upon 
one  knee.  ‘  My  lady,’  he  said,  ‘  your  ladyship  has  never 
loved  me,  but  I  take  God  to  witness  that  I  have  ever 
honoured  your  ladyship.  Albeit  I  am  a  poor  devil  of  a 
lacquey,  madam,  I  have  wit  enough  to  know  a  great  lady 
when  I  see  her.’ 

Said  the  Countess:  ‘If  you  think  that  I  have  a  disliking 
for  you,  Paris,  you  are  mistaken.  I  neither  love  nor  hate 
you.  I  have  never  thought  about  you.’ 

‘Madam,’  said  he,  ‘why  should  your  ladyship?  I  shall 
venture,  none  the  less,  to  pray  God  give  you  all  health, 
fame,  and  happiness.’ 

Lady  Bothwell  sat  bolt  upright,  one  firm  hand  on  the 
table.  ‘  Health  I  have  from  God  already.  Fame,  if  you 
mean  good  fame,  I  have  kept  for  myself.  Happiness,  if 
that  lies  in  the  satisfaction  of  abiding  desire,  I  intend  to 
have  before  long.  Now  begone  with  your  charge.’ 

He  went  out  shaking  his  head,  muttering  to  himself : 
‘  Terrible  lady  !  fine,  carven,  deep-eyed  lady  !  What  is  her 
abiding  desire  ?  ’ 

He  found  out  afterwards. 

The  coffer  and  he  came  safe  to  Dunbar  and  into  the 
presence  of  their  master.  The  Queen  was  in  the  room  : 
red  eyes,  hot  patches  in  her  cheeks,  a  swinging  foot,  fingers 
a-tap  on  the  table -  ‘Ho!  a  tiff,’  thinks  Paris. 


CH.  VIII 


THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 


455 


My  Lord  Bothwell  hands  over  the  coffer,  or  rather 
puts  it  on  the  table  by  the  Queen’s  elbow.  ‘  Here  is 
your  testimony,  ma  mie .  By  my  advice  you  burn  every 
scrap  of  it.’ 

‘  Shall  I  burn  what  has  cost  me  so  much,  and  you,  it 
seems,  so  little  ?  ’  she  asked  bitterly.  ‘  Is  it  nothing  to  you 
that  I  have  written  with  my  blood  and  sealed  with  my 
tears  ? ’ 

‘  I  had  not  analysed  the  ink,’  said  my  lord ;  ‘  and  if  I 
had  I  should  value  your  honour  more.  However,  you 
must  do  what  you  will.’  She  left  him  without  answer;  and 
by  and  by  Des-Essars  presented  himself,  saying  that  he 
had  her  Majesty’s  command  to  take  charge  of  the  coffer  for 
her.  Something  in  message  or  messenger  seemed  to  anger 
the  Earl.  ‘  Damn  you,  French  monkey,  you  take  too  much 
in  charge.  Must  her  Majesty  always  have  an  ear  to  pull 
or  a  cheek  to  pinch  ?  Man,  Baptist,  for  two  pence  I’d  have 
both  your  lugs  off  and  a  hot  iron  at  your  cheeks  :  with  a 
broad  C  branded  there,  my  man  :  ay,  by  God,  and  a  double 
C  !  Chamberer  Convict,  man,  Baptist !  ’ 

He  worked  himself  crimson  in  the  face,  his  eyes  savage 
and  red.  ‘  Mind  your  ways,  young  sir,  mind  your  ways  ’  — 
he  threatened  with  his  fist,  —  ‘  I  warn  ye  mind  your  ways 
just  now  —  lest  you  come  into  the  deep  mire,  man,  where 
no  ground  is.’ 

Des-Essars  drilled  his  slim  body  to  attention,  and  fixed 
his  eyes  on  the  opposite  wall.  The  Earl  glared  at  him 
open-mouthed,  and  fingered  his  dagger  as  though  he 
itched  to  be  at  it.  But  presently  he  scoffed  at  him¬ 
self —  ‘A  white-faced  boy  to  stand  by  side  o’  me!’  He 
turned:  ‘Take  your  coffer,  master,  and  be  out  of  this. 
A  little  more  and  I  might  colour  you  finely.’ 

Des-Essars  removed  both  coffer  and  himself.  Paris  was 
trembling  :  he  knew  that  what  he  had  to  report  of  Edin¬ 
burgh’s  doings  would  not  make  matters  any  better.  Nor 
did  they  —  though  it  may  be  doubted  whether  they  could 
have  made  matters  any  worse. 

The  joys  of  love  —  love’s  moment  of  victory,  love’s  rest, 
and  possession  of  the  spoils  —  are  gossamer  things:  an 


456 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


adverse  breath  may  shred  them  away.  As  for  Love  himself, 
you  may  call  him  a  Lord  or  a  Beast,  give  him  his  roseate 
wings  or  his  cloven  hoofs  and  tail :  certainly  there  never 
was  in  the  world  so  refined  a  glutton.  Perfection  is  what 
he  claims,  no  less ;  perfection  of  leisure  to  obtain,  perfection 
of  content,  and  all  according  to  that  standard  of  mind  which, 
in  a  field  without  limit,  grudges  the  stirring  of  a  filament 
as  a  hindrance  to  the  enormous  calm  he  covets,  and  sees 
in  a  speck  of  sand  a  blemish  upon  his  prize.  ‘  Alas !  no 
man,  no  kingdom  of  this  world,  no  ordering  attainable  by 
mortal  minister  could  have  appeased  Queen  Mary.  She 
was  made  to  hunt  for  happiness  and  never  to  find  it.  She 
had  risked  all  upon  this  cast  of  hers,  had  made  it,  at  her 
last  gasp  had  fallen  upon  the  quarry.  And  now,  clutching 
it,  eyeing  the  coverts  fearfully  to  right  and  left,  starting  at 
a  whisper,  cowering  at  the  lightest  shadow  —  like  a  beast  of 
prey,  she  had  no  time  to  taste  what  she  had  so  hardly  won. 
O  miserably  stung  by  the  rankling  arrow  !  Poor  Io, 
spurred  by  the  gad-fly,  what  rest  for  thee  ?  Come,  ye 
calm-browed  beneficent  goddesses  of  the  night !  Hand¬ 
maids  of  Death,  come  in !  and  with  cool  finger-tips  close 
down  these  aching  lids,  and  on  these  burning  cheeks  lay 
the  balm  of  the  last  kiss  ;  so  the  mutinous,  famishing  heart 
shall  contend  with  Heaven  no  more !  *  The  dithyrambic 
cry  of  Des-Essars  does  not  indicate  a  comfortable  state  of 
things  at  Dunbar. 

The  Queen  was  madly  in  love,  aching  to  be  possessed, 
but  knowing  herself  insecurely  possessed.  Her  tyrant,  % 
master,  beloved  —  whatever  Bothwell  may  have  desired  to 
be  —  was  harassed  by  events,  and  could  not  play  the  great 
lover  even  if  he  would.  Rebellion  gathered  outside  his 
stronghold,  and  he  knew  every  surge  of  it ;  he  was  not  safe 
from  disaffection  within  doors,  and  had  to  watch  for  it 
like  a  cat  at  a  mousehole.  If  the  Queen  had  sinned  to  get 
a  lover,  he  had  risked  his  head  to  wive  a  queen.  Well, 
and  he  had  not  got  her  yet,  though  she  asked  for  nothing 
better  all  day  and  night.  Queens  and  what  they  carry  are 
not  got  by  highway  robbery :  it’s  not  only  a  question  of 
kissing.  You  may  steal  a  Queen  for  the  bedchamber  —  but 
there’s  the  Antechamber  to  be  quieted,  there’s  the  Presence 


CH.  VIII 


THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 


457 


Chamber  to  be  awed,  there’s  the  Throne  Room  to  be 
shocked  into  obsequiousness :  ah,  and  the  Citadel  to  be 
taught  to  fly  your  banner.  Brooding  on  these  things  —  all 
to  do  except  one  —  his  lordship  had  no  time  for  transports, 
and  no  temper  neither.  When  the  Queen  wept  he  swore, 
when  she  pleaded  he  refused  her,  when  she  sulked  he 
showed  his  satisfaction  at  being  let  alone,  and  when  she 
stormed  he  stormed  loudlier.  He  was  not  a  man  of  fine 
perceptions:  that  was  his  strength,  he  knew.  By  the 
Lord,  said  he,  let  others,  let  her,  know  it  too !  And  the 
sooner  the  better. 

She  would  not  discuss  politics.  Dunbar,  which  was  to 
have  been  her  bride-bower,  should  be  so  still,  in  defiance  of 
beastly  fact.  She  refused  to  hear  what  Paris  had  to  say  of 
Edinburgh  pulpits,  of  Morton’s  men-at-arms,  Grange’s 
flying  messengers.  When  Bothwell  spoke  of  the  Prince  at 
Stirling  she  promised  him  a  new  prince  at  Dunbar ;  when 
he  cried  out  threats  against  Archie  Douglas  she  stopped 
his  mouth  with  kisses ;  when  he  summoned  Liddesdale  to 
arms  she  pouted  because  her  arms  were  not  enough  for 
him.  It  was  mad,  it  was  unreasonable,  it  fretted  him  to 
feverish  rages.  He  gnashed  his  teeth.  Lethington  kept 
rigidly  out  of  his  way :  he  was  really  in  danger,  and  knew 
it;  not  a  day  passed  but  he  made  some  plan  of  escape. 
Melvill  spoke  in  whispers,  could  not  have  stood  on  more 
ceremony  with  his  Maker.  Huntly  was  always  on  the 
verge  of  a  quarrel ;  and  as  for  poor  little  Des-Essars,  you 
know  how  he  stood. 

There  came  anon  swift  confirmation  of  Paris’  fears :  a 
letter  from  Hob  Ormiston,  now  in  Edinburgh,  to  his  brother 
the  Black  Laird.  Both  worthies  had  been,  as  we  know, 
with  Bothwell  on  the  night  of  Kirk  o’  Field.  Hob  wrote 
that  Kirkcaldy  of  Grange  had  met  him  after  sermon  in  a 
company  of  people,  taxed  him  with  the  King’s  murder  and 
threatened  him  with  arrest  ‘in  the  Queen’s  name  and  for 
her  honour.’  He  went  in  fear,  did  Hob;  his  life  was  in  it. 
Now,  might  he  not  clear  himself?  Let  his  lordship  of 
Bothwell  be  sounded  upon  that,  who  knew  that  he  was  as 
guiltless  of  that  blood  as  his  lordship’s  self.  It  would  be 
black  injustice  that  an  innocent  Hob  should  suffer  while 


458 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


a  blood-guttered  Archie  went  scot-free,  and  a  crowning 
indignity  that  he  should  perish  under  the  actual  guilty 

hands.  For  well  he  knew  that  my  L — d  of  M - n  stood 

behind  Grange.  Ormiston,  with  this  crying  letter  in  hand, 
sought  out  his  master,  and  found  him  on  the  terrace  over¬ 
looking  the  sea,  walking  up  and  down  with  the  Queen  and 
Lord  Huntly.  As  he  approached  he  saw  her  Majesty 
cover  her  mouth  and  strangle  a  yawn  at  birth. 

Bothwell  read  the  letter  through,  and  handed  it  to  the 
Queen.  She  also  read  it  hastily.  4  Innocent !  ’  she  mocked, 
with  a  curling,  sulky  lip,  ‘  the  innocent  Hob  —  a  good  word  ! 
But  this  letter  concerns  you,  Huntly,  more  than  me.’ 

In  turn  the  dark  young  lord  read  it.  He  was  much 
longer  at  it,  slower-witted ;  and  before  he  was  half¬ 
way  through  for  the  second  time  the  Queen  was  out  of 
patience. 

‘  Well !  well !  What  do  you  make  of  it,  you  who  know 
the  very  truth  and  do  not  choose  to  declare  it  ?  Are  our 
friends  to  be  cleared,  or  will  you  see  them  all  butchered  for 
the  Douglases’  sake  ?  ’ 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  while,  but  looked  far  oversea 
with  those  hawk-eyes  of  his,  which  seemed  able  to  rend  the 
garniture  of  Heaven  and  descry  the  veiled  secrets  of  God. 
When  he  turned  his  face  towards  her  it  was  a  far  nobler 
than  the  soured  face  he  looked  upon. 

‘  But  to  clear  them,  madam  —  Hob  and  the  like  of  Hob 
—  am  I  to  betray  them  that  trusted  me  ?  ’ 

She  gave  a  thring  of  the  shoulder,  a  fierce  flash  of  her 
eye,  and  turned  shortly,  and  went  away  by  herself.  There 
was  a  hot  wrangle  between  the  three  men  afterwards  —  in 
which  Bothwell  did  not  scruple  to  curse  his  brother-in-law 
for  ‘  meddling  in  what  concerned  him  not,’  or  (if  he  must 
meddle)  for  not  meddling  well 1 ;  but  Huntly  could  not  be 
moved. 

Things  like  these  drove  Bothwell  into  action  —  to  go 
through  with  his  business,  possess  himself  of  Edinburgh 


1  Here  I  am  bound  to  agree  with  Bothwell  ;  for  if  Huntly  wished  to  keep 
him  from  blood-guiltiness  and  knew  that  he  could,  why  not  have  kept  him  and 
his  kegs  away  altogether  ?  One  answer  may  be,  of  course,  that  Morton  and 
his  friends  would  never  have  stood  in  had  Bothwell  and  his  been  ruled  out. 


CH.  VIII 


THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 


459 


and  the  Prince,  and  marry  the  Queen  ?  Why  not  ?  He 
was  free,  he  had  her  in  the  crook  of  his  arm  ;  he  had  but  to 
go  up  to  blow  away  the  fog  of  dissidence :  afflavit  ventus , 
etc. !  He  urged  her  Majesty,  lectured  Lethington,  conferred 
with  Huntly,  and  got  agreement,  more  or  less.  Well  then, 
advance  banners,  and  let  the  wind  blow ! 

At  the  first  tidings  of  the  Queen’s  approach,  the  Earl  of 
Morton  and  his  belongings  —  his  Archie  Douglas,  his 
Captain  Cullen,  his  Grange  —  departed  the  city  and  repaired 
to  Stirling.  This  gave  fair  promise  ;  and  even  the  greeting 
she  got  when,  pacing  matronly  by  Bothwell’s  side,  sur¬ 
rounded  by  a  live  hedge  of  Bothwell’s  spears,  she  entered 
the  gates  and  went  down  to  Holyrood,  was  so  far  good  that 
it  was  orderly.  No  salutations,  no  waving  of  bonnets;  but 
close  observation,  a  great  concourse  in  a  great  quiet.  She 
did  not  like  that,  though  Bothwell  took  no  notice.  He  had 
not  expected  to  be  welcome ;  and  besides,  he  had  other 
things  to  think  of. 

I  extract  the  following  from  Des-Essars  :  — 

‘  The  Queen  had  a  way  of  touching  what  she  was  pleased 
with.  She  was  like  a  child  in  that,  had  eyes  in  her  fingers, 
could  not  keep  her  hands  away,  never  had  been  able.  To 
stroke,  fondle,  kiss,  was  as  natural  to  her  as  to  laugh  aloud 
when  she  was  pleased,  or  to  speak  urgently  through  tears 
when  she  was  eager.  I  remember  that,  as  we  rode  that  day 
into  the  suburb  of  Edinburgh,  she,  being  tired  (for  the  way 
had  been  hot  and  long),  put  her  hand  on  my  shoulder  ;  and 
that  my  lord  looked  furiously  ;  and  that  she  either  could  not, 
or  would  not  see  him.  I  had  had  reason  only  lately  to 
suspect  him  of  jealousy,  though  she  as  yet  had  never  had 
any.  But  for  this  very  innocent  act  of  hers  he  rated  her 
without  stint  or  decorum  when  we  were  at  Holyroodhouse ; 
and  as  for  me,  I  may  say  candidly  that  I  walked  with 
death  as  my  shadow,  and  never  lay  down  in  my  bed 
expecting  to  get  out  of  it  on  the  morrow. 

‘  The  effect  of  his  unreason  upon  her,  when  she  could 
be  brought  to  believe  in  it,  was  of  the  unhappiest.  It  lay 
not  in  her  nobility  to  subserve  ignoble  suspicions.  Our 
intercourse,  far  from  ceasing  out  of  deference  to  him,  was 
therefore  made  secret,  and  what  was  wholly  innocent  stood 


460 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


vested  in  the  garb  of  a  dear-bought  sin  —  an  added  zest 
which  she  had  been  much  better  without.  I  was  removed 
from  all  direct  service  of  her  —  for  he  saw  to  that;  but  she 
found  means  of  communicating  with  me  every  day;  waited 
for  me  at  windows,  followed  me  with  her  eyes,  had  little 
speedy,  foolish  signals  of  her  own  —  a  finger  in  her  mouth,  a 
hand  to  her  side,  her  bosom  touched,  her  head  held  askew, 
her  head  hung,  a  smile  let  to  flutter  —  all  of  which  were 
to  be  so  much  intelligence  between  us.  She  excelled  in 
work  of  the  kind,  was  boundlessly  fertile,  though  I  was 
a  sad  bungler.  But,  God  forgive  me !  I  soon  learned 
in  that  blissful  school,  and  became,  I  believe,  something 
of  a  master. 

‘  I  was  not  the  only  man  of  whom  he  was  jealous,  by 
any  means.  There  was  my  Lord  Livingstone,  a  free-living, 
easy  man  of  advanced  age,  who  had  been  accustomed  to 
fondle  her  Majesty  as  his  own  daughter,  and  saw  no  reason 
to  desist,  being  given  none  by  herself.  But  one  day  my 
lord  came  in  and  found  him  with  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
Out  he  flung  again,  with  an  oath ;  and  there  was  a  high 
quarrel,  with  daggers  drawn.  The  Queen,  who  could  never 
be  curbed  in  this  kind  of  way  by  any  one,  lover  or  beloved, 
dared  his  lordship  to  lay  a  finger  on  Livingstone ;  and  he 
did  not.  There  was  also  my  lord  of  Arbroath,  who  had 
pretensions  and  a  mind  of  his  own ;  to  whom  she  gave  a 
horse,  and  induced  more  high  words.  There  was  my  Lord 
Lindsay,  who  admired  her  hugely  and  said  so  :  but  to  follow 
all  the  wandering  of  unreason  in  a  gentleman  once  his  own 
master,  were  unprofitable.  All  that  I  need  add  (for  the 
sake  of  what  ensued  upon  it)  is  that  one  day  Mr.  Secretary 
Lethington  came  into  the  Cabinet  all  grey-faced  and 
shaking  as  with  a  palsy,  and  laid  his  hands  upon  the 
Queen’s  chair,  saying  fearfully :  “  Sanctuary,  madam, 
sanctuary !  I  stand  in  peril  of  my  life.”  It  appeared  that 
my  lord,  who  abhorred  him,  had  drawn  on  him  in  full  hall. 
So  then  once  more  she  grew  angry  and  forbade  his  lordship 
to  touch  a  hair  of  Lethington’s  head :  “For  so  sure  as  you 
do  it,”  she  said,  “  I  banish  you  the  realm.”  For  the 
moment  he  was  quite  unnerved,  and  began  to  babble  of 
obedience  and  his  duty ;  and  I  say,  let  God  record  of  our 


THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 


CH.  VIII 


461 


lady  in  that  time  of  her  disgrace  that  she  had  not  forgotten 
how  to  stand  as  His  vicegerent  in  Scotland. 

*  Affairs  went  from  bad  to  worse  with  her.  We  learned 
every  day  by  our  informers  how  the  lords  were  gaining 
strength  in  the  west,  and  stood  almost  in  a  state  of  war 
against  us.  They  were  close  about  the  Prince  —  the  chiefs 
of  their  faction  being  the  Earls  of  Mar,  Atholl,  Argyll, 
Glencairn,  and  Morton.  With  them  was  Grange,  the  best 
soldier  in  the  kingdom ;  and  Lord  Lindsay  would  have 
gone  over,  but  that  he  grossly  loved  the  Queen  and  could 
not  keep  his  eyes  off  her.  Letters  intercepted  from  and  to 
England  made  it  certain  that  the  Queen  of  that  country 
was  supporting  our  enemies  and  preparing  for  our  ruin  — 
nor  was  it  without  reason,  as  I  am  bound  to  confess,  for  the 
safety  of  our  young  prince  imported  the  welfare  of  her 
country  as  well  as  ours  ;  and  it  may  well  have  been  dis¬ 
tasteful  to  her  English  Majesty  to  have  the  fingers  of  the 
Earl  of  Bothwell  so  near  to  dipping  in  her  dish.  As  if 
these  troubles  were  not  enough,  we  were  presently  to  hear 
of  flat  rebellion  under  the  Queen’s  very  eyes,  when  we  were 
told  that  Mr.  Cragg,  the  preacher,  would  not  read  out  the 
banns  of  marriage.  That  same  was  a  stout  man,  after  Mr. 
Knox’s  pattern.  It  is  true  they  forced  him  by  a  writ  to 
publish  them,  but  neither  summons  before  the  council  nor 
imminent  peril  of  worse  would  keep  his  tongue  quiet.  He 
daily  railed  against  those  he  was  about  to  join  in  wedlock, 
and  had  to  be  banished  the  realm. 

‘  Hard-faced  was  the  Queen  through  these  disastrous 
days,  and  all  stony  within  ;  bearing  alike,  with  weary,  proud 
looks,  the  indifference  of  her  trusted  friends,  the  insolent 
suspicions  of  my  lord  of  Bothwell,  the  constant  rumours, 
even  the  shameful  reports,  put  about  concerning  herself,  as 
if  she  was  ignorant  of  them.  She  was  not,  she  could  not 
be  ignorant,  but  she  was  utterly  negligent.  To  her  but  one 
thing  was  of  concern  —  his  love ;  and  until  she  was  sure  of 
that  all  else  might  go  as  it  would.  True,  he  was  jealous : 
at  one  time  she  had  thought  that  a  hopeful  sign.  But  when 
she  found  out  that  in  spite  of  her  kindness  he  remained 
indifferent ;  when  he  abstained  from  her  company  and  bed, 
when  he  absented  himself  for  two  days  together —  and  was 


462 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


still  jealous  —  she  was  bound  to  doubt  the  symptom.  It 
wanted  but  one  thing,  in  truth,  to  break  down  her  pride  and 
trail  her  lovely  honour  in  the  dust :  and  she  had  it  sharp 
and  stinging.  O  unutterable  Secret  of  Secrets,  never  to  be 
divulged  but  in  this  dying  hour  when  she  must  ask  for  pity, 
since  honest  dealing  is  denied  to  her !  She  was  stung  — 
down  fell  she  —  and  I  saw  her  fall  — -  heart-broken,  and  was 
never  more  the  high  Huntress,  the  Queen  “  delighting  in 
arrows.”  My  pen  falters,  my  tears  blind  me  ;  but  write  it 
I  must :  her  fame,  her  birthright,  nay,  her  gracious  head, 
are  in  dire  peril.1 

‘  It  was  commonly  suspected  that  Lethington  was 
desirous  of  escaping  to  the  lords  at  Stirling,  among  whom 
he  could  count  upon  one  firm  friend  in  the  Earl  of  Atholl. 
To  say  nothing  that  he  went  hourly  in  fear  of  my  lord  of 
Bothwell,  and  believed  that  the  Queen  distrusted  him,  he 
had  been  too  long  in  the  Earl  of  Moray’s  pocket — kept 
there  as  a  man  keeps  a  ferret  —  to  be  happy  out  of  it. 
Nominally  at  large,  a  pretty  shrewd  watch  was  kept  upon 
him,  since  it  would  not  have  been  at  all  convenient  to  have 
him  at  large  among  her  Majesty’s  enemies.  He  knew  too 
much,  and  his  wife,  that  had  been  Mistress  Fleming,  more 
than  he.  Therefore  it  was  not  intended  that  he  should 
leave  us.  Yet  I  am  certain  that  no  day  passed  in  which  he 
did  not  make  some  plan  of  escape. 

‘  It  was  for  a  step  in  one  of  such  schemes,  I  suppose, 
though  I  cannot  see  how  it  should  have  helped  him,  that  on 
the  day  before  my  lord  of  Bothwell  was  created  Duke  of 
Orkney,  and  three  days  before  the  marriage,  he  gave  the 
Queen  a  thought  which  very  soon  possessed  her  altogether. 

‘  My  lord  was  away,  but  expected  back  that  night ; 
Lethington,  being  with  some  others  in  the  Queen’s  Cabinet 
when  the  talk  fell  upon  the  Countess  of  Bothwell,  told  her 
Majesty  that  the  lady  was  dwelling  at  Crichton.  He  said 
it  very  skilfully  —  quasi  negligently  and  by  the  way  —  but 
instantly  she  caught  at  it,  and  took  it  amiss.  “  She  has 
cast  him  off — let  him  cast  her  off.  Crichton  !  Crichton  ! 
Why,  he  holds  it  of  me  !  How  then  should  Jean  Gordon 

1  Des-Essars,  plainly,  was  at  work  during  the  Queen’s  captivity  in  England; 
and,  as  I  judge,  while  the  inquiry  was  being  held  in  Westminster  Hall  in  1568. 


CH.  VIII 


THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 


463 


be  there  ?  Or  do  we  share ,  she  and  If ”  She  spoke  in  her 
petulant,  random  way  of  hit  or  miss,  meaning  (it  is  likely) 
no  more  than  that  she  was  weary  of  Lethington.  But  he 
coughed  behind  his  hand,  and  rising  up  suddenly,  went  to 
the  window.  The  Queen  marked  the  action,  and  called 
him  back. 

‘“Come  hither,  Mr.  Secretary,”  said  she  quietly;  and 
he  returned  at  once  to  her  side. 

“‘You  will  please  to  explain  yourself,”  she  said.  Very 
quiet  she  was,  and  so  were  we  all. 

‘  He  began  vast  excuses,  floundering  and  gasping  like  a 
man  in  deep  water.  The  more  he  prevaricated  the  more 
steadfast  she  became  in  pursuit ;  and  so  remained  until  she 
had  dragged  out  of  him  what  he  knew  or  had  intended 
to  imply.  The  sum  and  substance  was  that  Paris  (a  valet 
of  my  lord’s)  had  of  late  taken  letters  to  and  from 
Crichton :  common  knowledge,  said  Lethington.  And 
then,  after  a  good  deal,  not  to  the  purpose,  he  declared 
that  my  lord  had  spent  two  several  nights  there  since  the 
Court  had  returned  to  Edinburgh  from  Dunbar. 

‘  The  Queen,  being  white  even  to  the  lips,  said  faintly 
at  the  end  that  she  did  not  believe  him.  Lethington 
replied  that  nothing  but  his  duty  to  her  would  have  induced 
him  to  relate  facts  so  curious ;  the  which,  he  added,  must 
needs  concern  her  Majesty,  the  Fountain  of  Honour,  who, 
unsullied  herself,  could  not  brook  defilement  in  any  of  the 
tributaries  of  her  splendour.  She  dismissed  us  all  with  a 
wave  of  her  hand  —  all  but  Mistress  Sempill  (who  had  been 
Mistress  Livingstone),  who  stayed  behind,  and  whose 
ringing  voice  I  heard,  as  I  shut  the  door,  leap  forward  to 
be  at  grips  with  the  calumny. 

‘  She  had  recovered  her  gallantry  by  the  evening.  In¬ 
credible  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  true  that  she  publicly  taxed 
my  lord  with  the  facts  charged  against  him,  when  he 
returned.  He  did  not  start  or  change  colour  —  looked 
sharply  at  her  for  an  instant,  no  more. 

‘  “  Jealous,  my  Queen  ?  ”  he  asked  her,  laughing. 

“‘And  if  I  am,  my  lord,  I  have  an  example  before 
me,”  said  she.  “Have  you  not  been  pleased  to  condemn 
me  in  regard  to  this  poor  boy  ?  ” 


464 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


‘  I  bore  that  with  what  face  I  could :  he  regarded  me 
with  the  look  of  a  wild  hog  that  grates  his  tooth.  Anon 
he  said  :  “  Master  Baptist  and  I  know  each  other  of  old. 
I  believe  I  can  give  as  good  account  of  the  reckonings 

between  my  staff  and  his  back  as -  Well,  this  is 

unprofitable  jesting.  Now,  let  me  understand.  Your 
Grace  charges  me  with  —  what  in  particular?  ” 

4  “  Oh,  my  lord,”  cried  she,  with  a  bold  face,  “  I  make 
no  charges.  I  did  but  put  you  a  question :  whether  you 
had  visited  your  Castle  of  Crichton  these  late  days  —  your 
Castle  of  Crichton  which  you  hold  of  me  in  chief  ?  ” 

‘He  shrugged  his  shoulders;  and  “ Chi  lo  sa ?”  quoth 
he,  with  a  happy  laugh.  “  Let  your  Majesty  and  me 
confer  upon  these  and  other  high  matters  of  state  when  my 
head  is  on  better  terms  with  my  stomach.  I  am  a  fasting 
man,  no  match  for  your  Majesty.  Your  Majesty  knows 
the  Spanish  saw,  When  the  belly  is  full  it  saitk  to  the  head , 
Sing,  you  rascal ?  I  crave  your  leave,  then,  to  get  my 
singing  voice  again.”  He  took  it  with  bravery,  as  you  per¬ 
ceive  ;  and,  having  his  liberty,  went  away  singing  to  supper. 

‘  He  stayed  below  stairs  for  the  rest  of  the  night,  drink¬ 
ing  and  talking  with  Sir  James  Melvill  and  my  lord  of 
Livingstone  —  ribald  and  dangerous  talk,  for  he  had  a  lewd 
mind,  and  neither  discretion  nor  charm  in  the  uses  to 
which  he  put  his  tongue.  The  Queen  sat  miserably  in  the 
dark  far  into  the  night,  and  went  to  bed  without  prayers. 
I  heard  her  cry  out  to  Mistress  Sempill  that  she  wished 
she  lay  where  the  King  was,  and  Sempill  answered,  “  Damn 
him,  damn  him !  ”  Next  day,  with  what  grace  she  could 
muster,  she  created  my  lord  Duke  of  Orkney.  That  was 
done  before  noon ;  by  five  o’clock  of  the  evening  he  was 
ridden  away  for  Borthwick  and  Dunbar,  as  he  said,  upon 
State  business.  In  three  days’  time  she  was  to  marry  him, 
O  Heaven ! 

‘  Early  in  the  morning  —  the  morrow  after  his  going  — 
she  sent  for  me  to  come  up  to  her  bedchamber ;  and  so  I 
did,  and  found  her  very  worn  in  the  face,  her  hand  hot  and 
dry  to  the  touch.  Commanding  herself  with  great  effort, 
speaking  slowly,  she  told  me  that  she  could  not  continue 
to  live  unless  she  could  deny  once  and  for  all  the  truth  of 


CH.  VIII 


THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 


465 


Lethington’s  tale.  My  lord  would  not  help  her.  “You 
know  his  way  of  mockery,”  says  she.  “He  laughs  to 
tease  me :  but  to  me  this  is  no  laughing  matter.  Mary 

Sempill  has  been  at  me  ever  since - ”  Here  she  fretted, 

muttering  to  herself,  “  I  do  not  believe  it  —  I  do  not  —  I  do 
not,”  fidgeting  her  hands  under  the  bedclothes;  then, 
breaking  off  short,  she  said  that  she  wished  me  to  ride  to 
Crichton  with  her  that  very  day.  She  would  take  Mary 
Sempill  — because  she  would  not  remain  behind  —  Erskine 
would  bring  an  escort;  there  would  be  no  danger.  I  said 
that  I  was  ready  to  live  or  die  for  her,  and  that  all  my  care 
was  to  save  her  from  unhappiness.  I  asked  her,  Would  she 
suffer  Erskine  and  myself  to  go  ? 

‘  She  stared  at  me.  “  Are  you  mad  ?  ”  she  asked. 
“  Have  you  found  me  so  patient,  to  sit  at  home  in  sus¬ 
pense  ?  or  so  tame,  to  shirk  my  enemies  ?  Nay,  my  child, 
nay,  but  I  will  prove  Lethington  a  liar  with  my  own  eyes.” 
To  be  short,  go  she  would  and  did ;  and  we  with  her,  as 
she  had  already  contrived  it. 

‘The  weather  was  hot  —  as  hot  as  summer  —  and  very 
still ;  riding  as  fast  as  we  did,  our  bodily  distresses  saved 
our  minds’.  We  had,  as  I  reckon,  some  fifteen  miles  to 
go,  by  intricate  roads,  woodland  ways,  by  the  side  of  streams 
overhung  with  boughs,  encumbered  with  boulders.  The 
Queen  was  always  in  front,  riding  with  Mistress  Sempill : 
she  set  the  pace,  said  nothing,  and  showed  herself  vexed 
by  such  little  delays  as  were  caused  by  Erskine  sounding 
the  banks  for  good  fording-ground,  or  losing  the  road,  as 
he  once  did,  and  trying  a  many  before  he  could  make  up 
his  mind.  “  Oh,  you  weary  me  with  your  Maybe  yeas 
and  Maybe  nays  !  ”  she  railed  at  him.  “  Why,  man,  I  could 
smell  my  way  to  Crichton.”  I  believe  her;  for  now  I  am 
sure  that  she  had  steeled  herself  for  what  she  was  to  find 
there.  I  knew  it  not  then  :  she  allowed  nothing  of  her 
mind  to  be  seen.  Nobody  could  be  more  secret  than  she 
when  she  saw  fit. 

‘  That  Castle  of  Crichton  stands,  as  do  most  of  them  in 
these  parts,  on  a  woody  bluff  over  a  deep  glen,  out  of  the 
which,  when  you  are  in  it,  you  can  never  see  how  near  you 
may  be  to  your  journey’s  end.  Thus  we  wound  our  way 


466 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


at  a  foot’s  pace  along  the  banks  of  a  small  stream,  in  and 
out  of  the  densest  woodland  —  beautiful  as  a  summer’s 
dream  just  then,  with  birds  making  vocal  all  the  thickets, 
wild  flowers  at  our  feet,  and  blooming  trees,  wild  cherry 
and  hawthorn  and  the  like,  clouds  come  to  earth  and 
caught  in  the  branches — and  found  a  steep  path  to  our 
right  hand,  and  climbed  it  for  half  an  hour :  and  lo !  gain¬ 
ing  the  crest  first,  I  saw  before  me,  quite  close,  the  place 
we  sought  —  a  fair  tower  of  grey  stone,  with  a  battlemented 
house  beside  it,  having  an  open  gate  in  a  barbican.  Before 
the  barbican  was  a  lawn  snowed  with  daisies,  and  upon 
that  two  white  greyhounds,  which  sat  up  when  they  first 
saw  us,  and  then  crouched,  their  muzzles  between  their 
paws.  But  as  we  advanced,  jumping  up  and  barking 
together,  they  raced  together  over  the  turf,  met  us,  and 
leapt  upwards  to  the  Queen’s  hand.  All  beasts  loved  her, 
and  she  loved  them. 

‘There  was  neither  guard  nor  porter  at  the  gates. 
They  stood  open  upon  an  empty  court,  beyond  which  we 
could  see  the  hall  doors :  open,  they,  also.  In  the  air  all 
about  us  was  the  sound  of  bees,  and  of  doves  hidden  in  the 
woody  slopes ;  but  no  noises  of  humankind  were  to  be 
heard  :  we  all  sat  there  on  our  horses,  and  watched,  and 
listened,  like  errant  adventurers  of  old  time  come  upon  an 
enchanted  lodging,  a  castle  and  hermitage  in  a  forest  glade. 

‘  Mistress  Sempill  broke  silence.  “  ’Tis  not  for  us  to 
enter  —  this  still  place,”  she  said.  “Come  your  ways, 
madam ;  you  have  seen  what  there  is  to  be  seen.” 

‘  The  Queen,  as  one  suddenly  awakened,  called  to  me. 
“  Baptist,  dismount  and  help  me  down.  I  am  going  in.” 

‘  I  obeyed,  and  helped  Mistress  Sempill  after.  Erskine 
would  stay  with  the  guard.  We  three  went  through  the 
gateway,  crossed  the  inner  court,  and  passed  the  doors  into 
the  hall  —  a  long  dusky  chamber  with  windows  full  of 
escutcheons  and  achievements,  and  between  them  broad 
sheets  of  ancient  arras  which  flapped  gently  in  a  little 
breeze.  The  sunlight,  coming  aslant,  broke  the  gloom 
with  radiant  blue  bars  —  to  every  window  a  bar.  As  we 
peered  about  us,  presently  Sempill  gave  a  short  little  cry, 
then  called  to  me,  “  Baptist,  Baptist,  have  a  care  for  her.” 


CH.  VIII 


THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 


467 


‘  It  was  an  old  woman  come  out  of  a  door  in  the  panel 
to  look  at  us  —  old,  grey  and  wrinkled.  I  asked  her,  Was 
any  other  within  ?  She  shook  her  head,  pointing  at  the 
same  time  to  her  mouth,  within  which,  when  she  opened 
it  wide,  I  saw  the  seared  stump  of  her  tongue,  and  per¬ 
ceived  that  she  had  been  maimed  of  that  organ.  Sempill 
remarked  it  also,  and  was  afraid.  “  Oh,  come  away,  for 
God’s  love !  ”  said  she :  “  there  is  witchcraft  here  ”  ;  and 
signed  herself  many  times.  But  the  Queen  laughed,  and 
went  up  to  the  mutilated  hag,  and,  patting  her  shoulder, 
went  by  her  through  the  door  by  which  she  had  come  in, 
and  turned  to  beckon  us  after  her.  So  we  climbed  a 
narrow  stair,  built  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall  round  and 
round  a  pillar.  In  the  gallery  above  were  doors  to  left 
and  right,  some  open  upon  empty,  fragrant  chambers, 
some  shut  and  locked.  I  believe  that  I  tried  them  all 
the  length  of  the  gallery  on  one  side ;  and  so  came  at  the 
farther  end  to  a  short  passage  on  my  right  hand  :  at  the 
end  of  that  a  low-pitched  door  ajar.  Thither  I  went  on 
tiptoe,  with  a  strong  sense  that  that  room  was  occupied. 
I  know  not  what  had  certified  me,  save  some  prescience 
which  men  have  at  times.  So  certain  was  I,  at  least,  that 
when  I  was  at  the  door  I  knocked.  I  was  answered, 
“  Enter.” 

‘  I  entered  not.  I  dared  not  do  it.  I  sped  back  to  the 
Queen,  who  now  stood  with  Sempill  at  the  head  of  this 
short  passage.  For  the  moment  my  nerve  was  clean  gone  : 
“  Some  one  there  —  let  us  go  away  !  ”  —  Who  knows  what 
hissed  foolishness  I  let  fly  ?  —  “  I  urge  you :  let  us  go 
away.”  But  the  Queen,  rose-bright,  keen  as  fire  in  the 
wind,  threw  up  her  head  and  flashed  her  eyes  full  upon 
me.  “Stand  aside,  sir  —  I  will  go  in.”  She  pushed  by 
me  and  went  into  the  room  without  ceremony.  We  had 
followed  her  with  beating  hearts. 

‘  She  had  not  gone  far  —  was  not  a  yard  from  the  door ; 
nor  do  I  marvel  at  it,  nor  need  you.  For  by  the  open 
window  sat  the  Countess  of  Bothwell  at  needlework, 
making,  as  I  saw  in  a  moment,  a  child’s  shift.  If  God  the 
P'ather  of  all,  who  framed  women  nobly  and  urged  them 
cast  their  hearts  in  the  dust  to  make  soft  the  ways  of  men 


468 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


—  if  He,  I  say,  pausing  in  His  vast  survey,  might  have 
discerned  this  dear  woman  now,  with  the  wound  upon  her 
still  raw  and  bleeding  whence  she  had  torn  that  generous 
heart  —  naked,  emptied,  betrayed;  ah,  and  face  to  face 
with  that  other  woman  also,  not  less  injured,  not  less  the 
vessel  of  a  man’s  beastly  convenience  —  I  dare  swear  He 
would  repent  Him  of  His  high  benevolence,  and  say,  “  Tush, 
I  have  planned  amiss.  The  waste  is  divine,  the  waster 
shall  be  crowned  with  the  glory  of  the  Magdalene,  that 
Mary  whom  I  would  no  more  condemn.  But  what  shall 
be  done  with  him  for  whom  these  women  spent  so  vainly  ?  ” 
Thus,  it  might  well  be,  would  God  reason  with  Himself. 
Yet  who  am  I,  poor  bastard  of  a  dead  mother  (spending 
she,  too,  with  little  avail)  to  interpret  the  reproaches  of  the 
Almighty  ? 

‘  For  an  age  of  suspense,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  the  Queen 
stood  where  we  had  found  her  —  a  yard  from  the  door,  per¬ 
fectly  still,  but  not  rigid.  No,  but  she  was  like  a  panther, 
all  lithe  and  rippling,  prest  for  a  pounce,  and  had  her  eyes 
set  fast  upon  the  other.  I  was  in  a  muck  of  fear,  and 
Sempill  muttering  fast  to  herself  her  “  O  Christ,  keep  us 
all !  O  Christ,  save  her  !  ”  and  the  like,  what  time  the 
Countess,  affecting  to  be  unaware,  crossed  one  knee  over 
the  other  and  bent  diligently  to  her  needlework.  The  time 
seemed  a  slow  hour,  though  I  know  not  how  long  it  may 
have  been,  before  the  Queen  began  to  move  about  the  room. 

*  I  know  what  made  her  restless  :  it  was  curiosity.  At 
first  she  had  only  had  eyes  for  the  lady ;  now  she  had  seen 
what  she  was  at  work  upon.  Yes,  and  she  had  been  at 
the  same  proud  task  herself  not  long  since.  I  am  certain 
that  she  was  just  then  more  curious  than  enraged.  At 
least,  instead  of  attacking  as  she  was  wont,  with  her  arrows 
of  speech  leaping  forward  as  she  went,  she  said  nothing, 
and  began  to  walk  the  room  restlessly,  roaming  about ; 
never  going  near  the  window,  but  looking  sidelong  towards 
it  as  she  passed  to  and  fro :  bright  spots  in  her  cheeks, 
her  hands  doubled,  biting  her  lips,  longing,  but  not  yet 
resolved,  to  know  all.  The  storm,  which  was  not  far  off, 
gathered  strength  as  she  walked  :  I  saw  her  shake  her 
head,  I  saw  a  tear  gleam  and  settle  on  her  shoulder.  And 


ch.  viii  THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE  469 

so  at  last  she  clenched  her  teeth,  and  stood  before  Lady 
Bothwell,  grinning  with  misery. 

‘“O  woman,”  she  said,  snarling,  “what  are  you  making 
there  ?” 

4  The  Countess  looked  up,  then  down :  the  far-searching 
eyes  she  had  !  “  I  am  making,”  said  she,  “  a  shift  for  my 

fair  son  that  is  to  be  —  my  lord’s  and  mine.” 

‘“You  make  for  a  bastard,  woman,”  said  the  Queen; 
and  the  Countess  smiled  wisely. 

‘  “  Maybe  I  do,  maybe.  But  this  child  of  mine,  look 
you,  in  my  country  we  call  a  love-child.” 

‘  The  Queen  reeled  as  if  she  were  sick-faint,  and  had 
Sempill  beside  her  in  a  moment,  flaring  with  indignation. 

‘  “  Come  you  with  me,  madam,”  cried  she ;  “  come  you 
with  me.  Will  you  bandy  words  with  a - ?  ” 

‘  She  was  not  suffered  to  get  out  her  word.  The  Queen 
put  her  away  gently,  saying,  “  No,  no,  you  shall  not  call 
her  that,  lest  she  may  ask  you  some  home  questions.” 

‘  But  the  Countess  was  not  offended.  “  Why  should  she 
not  ?  What  harm  in  a  name  ?  Call  me  as  you  will,  ma’am, 
I  shall  never  forbid  you.” 

‘“Have  you  no  shame?”  cried  Sempill.  “And  you 
divorced  on  your  own  motion  ?  ” 

‘  The  Countess  replied  to  the  Queen,  as  if  it  had  been 
she  that  spoke.  “  O,  madam,  if  divorce  stands  not  in  your 
way,  shall  it  stand  in  mine?  You  have  given  him  your 
body,  as  I  did  mine;  and  the  Church  cannot  gainsay  me 
that.  But  I’ll  have  you  remember  that  when  I  got  my 
child  I  was  a  wife  ;  and  when  you  get  yours  you’ll  be  none, 
I  doubt.” 

‘  At  this  spiteful  speech  the  Queen,  in  her  turn,  smiled. 
She  was  far  from  that  sort  of  recrimination.  Presently  she 
began  in  a  new  and  colder  tone — remembering  her  errand. 
“  Why  are  you  here  ?  ”  she  asked  the  Countess. 

‘  She  was  answered,  “  It  is  my  lord’s  pleasure.” 

‘  “  He  is  very  clement,  I  think,”  said  the  Queen. 

‘  The  Countess  made  no  reply ;  and  Sempill,  who  knew 
whether  clemency  had  moved  my  lord  or  not,  did  all  she 
could  to  prevent  the  Queen  from  knowing  it  also.  Un¬ 
fortunate  lady  !  She  gave  her  new  suspicions. 


470 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


‘“You  do  not  answer  me,  mistress,”  she  said,  in  her 
high  peremptory  way.  “  I  said  that  my  lord  is  clement, 
and  you  make  no  reply.  You  will  tell  me  these  are  your 
jointure-lands,  I  suppose?  Let  be  for  that.  Tell  me  now 
this  —  How  are  you  here  ?  ” 

‘  The  Countess  hereupon,  and  for  the  first  time,  looked  her 
in  the  face,  her  own  being  venomous  beyond  a  man’s  belief. 

‘“How  am  I  here?  Just  as  you  may  have  been  at 
Dunbar,  madam  —  as  his  kept  woman,  just.” 

‘“You  lie!  You  lie !”  cried  the  Queen.  “Dear  God, 
she  is  a  liar  !  Take  back  your  lies  —  they  hurt  me.” 

‘  She  pressed  her  side  with  all  her  might.  I  thought 
that  Sempill  would  have  struck  the  cruel  devil.  But  she 
never  flinched. 

‘“No,  no,  I  am  no  liar,  madam,”  she  answered.  “You 
are  his  woman,  and  so  am  I.  Eh,  there’s  been  a  many  and 
a  many  of  us  —  a  brave  company  !  ” 

‘  The  Queen  was  tussling  with  her  breast,  but  could  get 
no  breath.  I  thought  she  was  frightened  at  the  sudden 
revelation,  or  confirmation,  of  how  she  stood  :  she  faltered 
—  she  cast  about —  and  then  she  said  : 

‘  “  I  know  that  you  lie,  and  I  know  why  you  lie.  You 
hate  me  bitterly.  This  is  mere  malice.” 

‘“It  is  not  malice,”  says  the  Countess;  “it  is  the  bare 
truth.  Why  should  I  spare  you  the  truth  —  you  of  all 
women  ?  ” 

“‘You  hate  too  much,  you  hate  too  much!  I  have 
accorded  with  you  —  we  have  kissed  each  other.  I  tried  to 

serve  you.  It  is  not  my  fault  if  my  lord  —  if  my  lord - 

O  Jeannie!”  she  said,  with  a  pitiful  gesture  of  stretched-out 
arms — “O  Jeannie,  have  mercy  upon  me —  have  a  thought 
for  my  sorrow  !  ” 

‘  She  came  nearer  as  she  spoke,  so  near  that  the  two 
could  have  touched ;  and  then  the  Countess,  who  had  sat 
so  still,  turned  her  head  a  little  back,  and  (like  a  white  cat) 
laid  her  ears  flat  and  struck  at  last. 

‘“Woman,”  she  said,  “when  you  raked  my  father  out 
of  his  grave,  and  spat  upon  his  dead  corse,  what  thought 
had  you  for  his  flesh  and  blood  ?  What  mercy  upon  their 
sorrow  ?  ” 


CH.  VIII 


THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 


47i 


‘  The  Queen,  when  she  had  understood  her,  wiped  her 
eyes,  and  grew  calmer.  “  I  had  no  thought  for  you  then, 
nor  durst  I  have  any.  Princes  must  do  justice  without 
ruth ;  and  he  was  a  rebel,  and  so  were  you  all.  Your 
brothers  Huntly  and  Adam  have  read  me  better.” 

‘  “  Ay,”  said  the  Countess,  “  the  greedy  loons  !  They 
put  your  fingers  in  their  mouths  and  suck  sweetness  and 
solace  —  like  enough  they  will  read  you  well.  But  I  am  not 
of  their  fashion,  you  must  know.”  Stiffening  herself,  she 
spoke  swiftly :  “  And  if  you  could  dishonour  a  dead  old 
man  whom  you  vow  you  had  once  loved,  what  wonder  if  I 
dishonour  you  whom  I  have  always  hated?” 

‘  The  Queen  smiled  in  a  sweet,  tired  way,  as  if  she  was 
sorry  for  this  woman.  “  Do  you  so  hate  me,  Jeannie  ?  ” 

‘  And  the  Countess  answered  her :  “  Ay,  worse  than 
hell-fire  for  my  dead  father’s  sake,  and  for  my  brother 
John’s,  whom  you  slew.  And  so  I  am  well  content  to  be 
here,  that  you  should  see  me  unashamed,  owner  without 
asking  of  what  you  long  for  but  can  never  have ;  and  that 
I  should  see  you  at  my  feet,  deeply  abased.” 

‘  If  her  tongue  had  been  a  blade  and  her  will  behind  it 
as  the  hand  of  one  who  lived  for  cruelty,  she  could  not 
have  got  her  dear  desire  more  utterly  than  by  these  slow- 
stabbing  words.  Content  to  be  here !  Yea,  lascivious 
devil  that  she  was,  I  could  see  that  she  was  rolling  in  her 
filthy  comfort.  But,  by  heaven,  she  was  redeemed  by  the 
fading  breath  of  the  most  unhappy  lady  that  ever  moaned 
about  the  world. 

‘  The  Queen,  I  tell  you,  went  directly  to  her — went  close 
to  her,  without  thought  of  fear  or  sickening  of  disgust. 
And  she  took  the  wicked  white  face  between  her  hands  and 
kissed  the  poisonous  lips.  And  she  said  :  “  Hate  me  no 
more,  Jeannie  Gordon,  for  now  I  know  that  we  are  sisters 
in  great  sorrow,  you  and  I.  If  we  are  not  loved  we  must 
needs  be  unhappy ;  but  in  that  we  have  loved,  and  do  still 
love,  we  are  not  without  recompense.  So  we  must  never 
rend  each  other ;  but  you,  poor  lover,  must  kiss  me,  your 
sister,  as  now  I  do  you.” 

‘  I  ask  myself  here  —  and  others  have  asked  me  —  was 
this  sudden  alteration  in  her  Majesty  that  old  sweet  guile 


472 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


of  hers,  inveterate  still  and  at  work  ?  Was  it  possible  that, 
even  now,  she  could  stay  and  stoop  to  cajole  this  indurate 
woman,  to  woo  her  with  kisses,  kill  her  with  kindness  ? 
I  like  not  to  consider :  many  there  be,  I  know,  who  do 
believe  it,  Mistress  Sempill  being  one.  Who  am  I  to  judge 
that  deep,  working  heart  more  narrowly  than  by  what 
appears  ?  Such  questions  are  too  nice ;  they  are  not  for 
my  answering.  Candour  compels  me  to  record  them  ;  but 
I  can  only  report  what  I  saw  and  heard. 

‘  I  heard  the  Countess  give  a  throttled  cry,  as  she 
struggled  like  one  caught  in  a  fire ;  but  the  Queen  kissed 
her  again  before  she  could  free  herself.  When  at  last  she 
had  flung  away,  with  crying  and  a  blenched  face  —  she  who 
had  been  so  hard  before  was  now  in  a  state  of  wild  alarm, 
warning  off  our  lady  with  her  fighting  hands.  “No,  no, 
no!  Touch  me  not — defile  not  yourself.  Oh,  never  that 
—  I  dare  not  suffer  you  !” 

4  “What,  ami  so  vile?”  says  the  poor  Queen,  mis¬ 
understanding  her  in  this  new  mood.  The  Countess  burst 
out  into  passionate  weeping,  which  hurt  her  so  much  (for 
she  was  no  tearful  woman  by  nature)  that  she  writhed 
under  the  affliction  as  if  the  grief  within  was  tearing  at  her 
vitals.  She  shrieked,  “  Ah,  no !  Not  you —  not  you  — but 
I.  Oh,  you  torture  me,  brand  me  with  fire!”  I  could  not 
guess  what  she  meant,  save  that  she  was  beaten,  and  her 
wicked  passion  with  her. 

‘  She  sat  up  and  stared  at  our  Mistress,  her  face  all 
writhen  with  grief.  “Listen,  listen — this  is  the  truth  as 
God  knows  it.  That  man  who  stands  between  us  two  and 
Heaven  is  your  ruin  and  mine.  For  I  love  him  not  at 
all,  and  have  consented  to  him  now,  degrading  myself  for 
hatred’s  sake.  And  for  you,  who  have  loved  him  so  well, 
he  has  no  care  at  all  —  but  only  for  your  crown  and  royal 
seat ;  for  he  loves  me  only — and  so  it  has  always  been.” 

‘  The  Queen  could  only  nod  her  head.  Mary  Sempill 
said  sternly  :  “  Woman,  you  do  well  to  lash  yourself  at 
last ;  for  none  can  hurt  you  beside  yourself.  Now,  may 
God  forgive  you,  for  I  never  will.” 

‘  “  Oh,  Mary,”  says  the  Queen,  “what  have  you  or  I  to 
do  with  forgiveness  of  sins  ?  Alas,  we  need  it  for  ourselves. 


CH.  VIII 


THE  BRIDE’S  PRELUDE 


473 


And  she  is  in  as  bad  a  case  as  I  am.”  Then,  “  Come  to 
me  now,  Jeannie,”  she  said  ;  and  most  humbly  that  wicked, 
beaten  woman  crept  up  to  her  late  enemy.  The  Queen 
embraced  and  comforted  her.  “  Farewell,  Jeannie,”  said 
she,  “  and  think  as  well  of  me  as  you  can.  For  I  go  on  to 
I  know  not  what  —  only  I  do  think  it  will  be  unhappiness  — 
and  we  shall  never  meet  again.”  With  sublime  calm  she 
turned  to  us,  weeping  behind  her.  “  Come,  my  children, 
let  us  go  our  ways.” 

‘  This  is  the  most  terrible  secret  sorrow  which  broke  her 
heart,  and  ends  my  plea  for  pity  upon  her  who  loved  so 
fondly.  My  breath  and  strength  are  done  ;  for  I  had  them 
from  her  alone,  and  with  her  high  heart’s  death  dies  my 
book.’ 

Honest,  ingenuous,  loyal  Des-Essars !  seeing,  maybe, 
but  in  a  glass  darkly ;  seeing,  certainly,  not  more  than  half 
—  thou  wert  right  there.  If  thy  mistress  beat  the  woman 
at  last,  it  was  with  her  fading  breath.  She  knew  herself 
beaten  to  the  dust  by  the  man. 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  BRIDE’S  TRAGEDY 

The  heart  being  an  organ  of  which  we  have  opinions  more 
gallant  than  practical,  Des-Essars  should  perhaps  have 
judged  wiselier  that  his  Secret  of  Secrets  was  what  broke 
the  Queen’s  spirit.  There  he  had  been  right,  for  from  this 
day  onwards  to  the  end  of  her  throned  life  the  tragedy  is 
pure  pity  :  she  drifts,  she  suffers,  but  she  scarcely  acts  — 
unless  the  struggles  of  birds  in  nets  can  be  called  acts. 
After  her  spirit  went  rapidly  her  animal  courage ;  after 
that  her  womanly  habit.  She  was  like  to  become  a  mere 
tortured  beast.  And  as  I  have  no  taste  for  vivisection,  nor 
can  credit  you  with  any,  I  shall  be  as  short  as  I  can. 

Silent  all  the  long  way  home  from  wooded  Crichton  to 
the  sea,  it  might  seem  as  if  she  had  been  hardening  herself 
by  silent  meditation  for  what  she  knew  must  take  place. 
She  saw  nothing  of  Bothwell  that  night  —  she  was  not  yet 
ready  for  him ;  but  she  did  what  had  to  be  done  with  Marv 
Sempill. 

When  that  loyal  soul  came  late  into  the  bedchamber  to 
bid  her  good-night,  she  found  her  mistress  in  bed,  calm  and 
clear  in  mind.  Forewarned  in  some  measure,  as  she 
stooped  over  to  kiss  her,  the  Queen  did  not  as  usual  put  out 
her  arms  to  draw  her  friend  nearer,  but  lay  waiting  for  the 
kiss,  which  hovered,  as  it  were,  above  her ;  and  before  it 
could  come  she  said,  ‘  Do  you  kiss  me,  Mary  ?  Wait 
while  I  tell  you  something.  I  am  to  be  married  to  my 
lord  come  the  day  after  to-morrow.’ 

474 


CH.  IX 


THE  BRIDE’S  TRAGEDY 


475 


Sempill,  prepared  or  not,  started  back,  on  fire.  ‘You’ll 
never  do  it.  You’ll  never  dare  to  do  it.’ 

‘  I  shall  dare  to  do  it,  if  I  dare  avouch  it.’ 

Sempill  was  trembling.  ‘I  cannot  endure  it,  cannot 
face  it  —  most  wicked!  Oh,  my  dear  love  and  my  friend, 
you  that  have  been  all  the  world  to  me  in  times  bygone, 
never  go  so  far  from  me  that  I  cannot  follow  you ! 

The  Queen  bit  her  lip,  and  wrinkled  her  eyes  where  the 
tears  were  brimming,  drowning  her  sight.  ‘  I  must,  I  must 

—  I  cannot  go  back.  Oh,  have  mercy  upon  me!  Oh, 

Mary - ’ 

Sempill  hid  her  face.  ‘  I  cannot  see  it  done.  I  cannot 
know  of  it.  I  am — I  do  my  best  to  be —  an  honest  woman. 
These  things  be  far  from  me — unholy  things.  As  Christ  is 
my  Saviour,  I  believe  He  will  pardon  you  and  me  all  our 
sins  of  the  hot  blood.  But  not  of  the  cold  blood  not  of 
the  dry !  ’  She  changed  suddenly,  as  if  struck  chill. 

‘  Why,  you  will  be  an  harlot !  ’  she  said. 

The  Queen  turned  over  in  her  bed  and  faced  the  wall. 

Sempill  went  down  on  her  knees.  ‘I  conjure  you  —  I 
beseech  you  !  Madam,  I  implore  you  !  By  your  mother’s 
bliss  and  your  father’s  crown  imperial,  by  the  great  calling 
of  your  birth  !  By  Christ’s  dear  blood  shed  for  you  and 
all,  by  the  sorrows  of  Our  Lady — the  swords  in  her  heart 

—  the  tears  that  she  shed  ;  by  her  swooning  at  the  Cross  — 
I  implore,  I  implore !  —  make  not  all  these  woes  to  be  in 
vain.  By  your  young  child  I  conjure  you  —  by  my  own 
upon  earth  and  the  other  in  my  womb  —  by  all  calm  and 
innocent  things  —  oh,  put  it  from  you  :  suffer  all  things  — 
even  death,  even  death  !  ’ 

There  was  no  response.  She  rose  and  stood  over  the 
bed.  ‘  We  have  loved  much,  and  had  sweet  commerce,  you 
and  I.  Many  have  had  sweetness  of  you  and  left  you  : 
Beaton  is  gone,  Fleming  is  alienate.  You  drive  me  to  go 
their  way,  you  drive  me  from  you.  For  if  you  do  this,  go 
I  must.  Honour  is  above  all  —  and  yon  man,  by  my  soul, 
is  as  foul  as  hell.  Turn  to  me,  my  Mary,  look  at  me  once, 
and  I  shall  never  leave  you  till  I  die.’ 

She  did  not  stir  nor  utter  a  sound ;  she  lay  like  a  log. 
Mary  Sempill,  with  a  sob  that  shook  her  to  pieces,  and 


476 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


a  gesture  of  drowning  hands,  went  out  of  the  room,  and 
at  midnight  left  the  palace.  Those  two,  who  had  been 
lovers  once  and  friends  always,  never  met  again  in  this 
world. 

What  the  Queen’s  motives  may  have  been  I  know  not, 
whether  of  desperate  conviction  that  retreat  was  not  pos¬ 
sible,  or  of  desperate  effort  to  entice  the  man  to  her  even 
at  this  last  hour :  let  them  go.1  She  held  to  her  resolve 
next  day ;  she  faced  the  remnant  of  her  friends,  all  she  had 
left;  lastly,  she  faced  the  strong  man  himself,  and  like  a 
doll  in  his  arms  suffered  his  lying  kisses  upon  her  lips. 
And  she  never  reproached  him,  being  paralysed  by  the 
knowledge  of  what  he  would  have  done  if  she  had.  To 
see  him  throw  up  the  head,  expose  the  hairy  throat,  to  see 
him  laugh  !  She  could  not  bear  that. 

On  this  day,  the  eve  of  her  wedding,  she  found  out  that 
her  courage  had  ebbed.  Things  frightened  her  now  which 
before  she  would  have  scoffed  at.  A  May  marriage  —  hers 
was  to  be  that :  and  they  who  feared  ill-luck  from  such  gave 
her  fears.  A  Highland  woman  became  possessed  in  the 
street,  and  prophesied  to  a  crowd  of  people.  She  said  that 
the  Queen  would  be  a  famous  wife,  for  she  would  have  five 
husbands,  and  in  the  time  of  the  fifth  would  be  burned. 
‘Name  them,  mother  —  name  them!’  they  cried;  and  the 
mad  creature  peered  about  with  her  sly  eyes.  ‘  I  dinna  see 
him  here,  but  the  third  is  in  this  town,  and  the  fourth  like¬ 
wise  !  ’  ‘  The  fourth  !  Who  is  he?’  ‘  He’s  a  Hamilton,  I 

ken  that  fine,  and  dwells  by  Arbroath.  I  doubt  his  name 
will  be  Jock.’ 

Lord  John  !  The  Lord  of  Arbroath  —  why,  yes,  she  had 
given  him  a  great  horse.  They  rehearse  this  tale  at  dinner, 
and  see  Bothwell  grow  red,  and  hear  the  Queen  talk  to 
herself :  ‘  Will  they  burn  me  ?  Yes,  yes,  that  is  the  punish¬ 
ment  of  light  women.  Poor  souls,  they  burn  for  ever  !  ’ 

She  carried  the  thought  about  with  her  all  day,  and  at 
dusk  was  much  agitated  when  they  lit  the  candles.  About 

1  I  am  unwilling  to  intrude  myself  and  my  opinions,  but  feel  drawn  to 
suggest  that  the  latter  was  her  motive.  If  she  had  beaten  the  Countess  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  could  she  not  beat  the  Earl  ?  Was  she  not  Huntress  to  the 
utterance?  Let  God  (Who  made  her)  pity  her:  I  do  believe  it. 


CH.  IX 


THE  BRIDE’S  TRAGEDY 


477 


supper-time  Father  Roche,  asking  to  speak  with  her,  was 
admitted.  He  told  her  that  his  conscience  would  not 
permit  him  to  be  any  longer  in  her  service.  Bothwell  had 
refused  to  be  married  with  the  mass  :  in  Father  Roche  s 
eyes  this  would  be  no  marriage  at  all.  She  was  angry  for 
a  second  in  her  old  royal  way— her  Tudor  way ;  moved 
towards  him  swiftly  as  if  she  would  have  quelled  himwit 
a  forked  word  ;  but  stopped  mid-road  and  let  her  hands 
unclench  themselves.  ‘  Yes,  yes,  go  your  ways  —  you  will 
find  a  well-trodden  road.  Why  should  you  stop  ?  I  need 
you  no  more.’  He  would  have  kissed  her  hands,  but  she 
put  them  behind  her  and  stood  still  till  he  had  gone.  Then 
to  bed,  without  prayers. 

At  ten  o’clock  of  the  morning  she  was  married  to  him 
without  state,  without  religion.  There  was  no  banquet : 
the  city  acted  as  if  unaware  of  anything  done ;  and  after 
dinner  she  rode  away  with  him  to  Borthwick.  Melvill, 
Des-Essars,  Lethington  went  with  her,  Mary  Seton  and 
Carwood.  Bothwell  had  his  own  friends,  the  Ornnstons 
and  others  of  mean  degree. 

With  tears  they  put  her  to  bed  ;  but  she  had  none.^  I 
would  that  I  might  die  within  the  next  hour,’  she  said  to 
Des-Essars  ;  and  he,  grown  older  and  drier  suddenly  —  ‘  By 
my  soul,  ma’am,  it  should  be  within  less  time,  to  do  you 

service.’  TT  , 

She  shook  her  head.  ‘  No,  you  are  wrong.  He  needs 

me  not.  You  will  see.’  She  sent  him  away  to  his  misery, 
and  remained  alone  in  hers. 

It  cannot  be  known  when  the  Earl  went  up.  He  stayed 
on  in  the  parlour  below,  drinking  with  his  friends  so  long 
as  they  remained  above-board,  talking  loudly,  boasting  o 
what  he  had  done  and  of  what  he  should  do  yet.  He  took 
her  back  to  Edinburgh  within  a  few  days,  moved  thereto 

by  the  urgency  of  public  affairs. 

Those  who  had  not  seen  her  go,  but  now  saw  her  return, 
did  not  like  her  looks  —  so  leaden-coloured,  so  listless  and 
dejected,  so  thin  she  seemed.  The  French  Ambassador 
Du  Croc,  an  old  friend  and  a  sage  —  waiting  for  audience, 
heard  a  quarrel  in  her  cabinet,  heard  Bothwell  mock  and 
gibe,  depart  with  little  ceremony ;  and  then  the  Queen  in 


478 


BK.  Ill 


THE  QUEENS  QUAIR 

hysterics,  calling  for  friends  who  had  gone  — for  Living¬ 
stone,  for  Fleming. 

Carwood  came  in.  *  O  madam,  what  do  you  lack  ?  ’ 

‘  My  courage,  my  courage.’ 

Carwood,  with  a  scream  —  ‘  God’s  sake,  ma’am,  put  down 
that  knife !  ’ 

‘The  knife  is  well  enough,’  says  she,  ‘but  the  hand  is 
numb.  Feel  me,  Carwood  :  I  am  dead  in  the  hand.' 

Du  Croc  heard  Carwood  grunt  as  she  tussled.  ‘  Leave 
it  —  leave  it  —  give  it  me !  But  you  shall.  You  are  Queen, 

but  my  God  to  me.  Leave  it,  I  say - ’  The  Queen 

began  to  whimper  and  coax  for  the  knife  — called  it  her 

lover.  Carwood  flung  open  the  window  and  threw  it  on  to 
the  grass. 

No  doubt  the  worst  was  to  be  feared,  no  doubt  Bothwell 
had  reason  to  be  nervous.  At  the  council-board,  to  which 
he  ordered  her  to  come,  he  told  her  what  was  before  her. 
The  lords  were  in  league,  clustered  about  the  Prince  *  he 
was  not  ashamed  to  tell  her  in  the  hearing  of  all  that  she 
was  useless  without  the  child.  Dejected,  almost  abject  as 
she  was  become,  she  quailed  —  shrinking  back,  with  wide 
eyes  upon  him  —  at  this  monstrous  insult,  as  if  she  herself 
had  been  a  child  struck  to  the  soul  by  something  more 

brutish  than  your  whips.  Lord  Herries  rose  in  his  place _ 

‘By  the  living  God,  my  lord,  I  cannot  hear  such  talk _ ’ 

Bothwell  was  driven  to  extenuate.  ‘  My  meaning,  madam, 
is  that  your  Majesty  can  have  no  force  in  your  arm,  nor 
can  your  loyal  friends  have  any  force,  without  the  Prince 
your  son  be  with  you.  You  know  very  well  how  your  late 
consort  desired  to  have  him;  and  no  man  can  say  he  was 
not  wise.  Believe  me,  madam  —  and  these  lords  will  bear 

amd<me’~he  ^  Whit  aS  necessary  to  your  Majesty 

Huntly,  on  the  Queen’s  left,  leaned  behind  her  chair  and 
spoke  in  a  fierce  whisper  :  ‘  You  forget,  I  think,  that  you 
speak  to  the  Queen,  and  of  the  Queen.  The  Prince  hath 
nothing  but  through  her.’ 

By  God,  Geordie,’  he  said,  whispering  back,  but  heard 
everywhere,  ‘  and  what  have  I  but  through  her  ?  I  tell  you 


CH.  IX 


THE  BRIDE’S  TRAGEDY 


479 


fairly  we  have  lost  the  main  unless  we  can  put  up  that 
cockerel.’ 

The  Queen  tried  to  justify  herself  to  her  tyrant.  ‘You 
know  that  I  have  tried  —  you  know  that  my  brother  worked 
against  me - ’ 

‘  And  he  was  wise.  But  now  he  is  from  home ;  we 
must  try  again.’ 

She  let  her  head  sink.  ‘I  am  weary  —  I  am  weary. 
Whom  have  we  to  send  ?  Do  you  trust  Lethington  ?  ’ 

This  was  not  heard ;  but  Lethington  saw  Bothwell’s 
eye  gleam  red  upon  him. 

‘  Him  ?  I  would  as  soon  go  myself.  If  he  wormed  in 
there,  do  you  suppose  we  could  ever  draw  him  out  again  ?  ’ 

‘  No,’  she  said  aloud,  ‘  I  am  of  your  mind.  Send  we 
Melvill,  then.’ 

He  would  not  have  Melvill :  he  chose  Herries. 

They  sent  out  Lord  Herries  on  a  fruitless  errand; 
fruitless  in  the  main  sense,  but  fruitful  in  another,  since 
he  brought  back  a  waverer.  This  was  the  Earl  of  Argyll, 
head  of  a  great  name,  but  with  no  head  of  his  own  worth 
speaking  about.  He  might  have  been  welcome  but  for  the 
news  that  came  with  him.  All  access  to  the  Prince  had 
been  refused  to  Herries  the  moment  it  was  known  on 
whose  behalf  he  asked  it.  The  Countess  of  Mar  mounted 
guard  over  the  door,  and  would  not  leave  until  the  Queen’s 
emissary  was  out  of  the  house.  There  was  more  than 
statecraft  here,  as  Herries  had  to  confess  :  witchcraft  from 
the  Queen  was  in  question,  from  the  mother  upon  the  child. 
The  last  time  she  had  been  to  see  him,  they  said,  she  had 
given  him  an  apple,  which  he  played  with  and  presently 
cast  down.  A  dog  picked  it  up,  ran  under  the  table  with 
it  and  began  to  mumble  it.  The  dog,  foaming  and  snap- 
ing,  jerked  away  its  life.  ‘Treason  and  lies!’  roared 
Bothwell,  who  was  present ;  ‘  treason  heaped  on  lies ! 
Why,  when  was  your  Majesty  last  at  Stirling  ?  ’  He  had 
forgotten,  though  she  had  not. 

‘  It  was  the  night  before  you  took  me  at  Almond  Brig,’  she 
said  ;  and,  when  he  chuckled,  broke  out  with  vehemence  of 
pain,  ‘You  laugh  at  it!  You  laugh  still,  O  Christ!  Will 
you  laugh  at  my  graveside,  Bothwell  ?  ’  She  hid  her  head 


480 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


in  her  arm  and  wept  miserably.  It  was  grievous  to  see  her 
and  not  weep  too.  Yet  these  were  no  times  in  which  to 
weep. 

On  the  same  day  in  which  Lord  Lindsay  departed,  to 
join  the  Lords  at  Stirling,  Huntly  also,  most  unhappily, 
asked  leave  to  go  to  his  lands.  The  Queen  used  him 
bitterly.  She  could  be  gentle  with  any  other  and  move 
their  pity :  with  him  she  must  always  be  girding.  ‘  Do 
you  turn  traitor  like  your  father  ?  Have  you  too  ke'pt 
a  dagger  for  my  last  hours  ?  ’  He  did  not  break  into 
reproaches,  nor  seek  to  justify  himself,  as  he  might  have 
done  —  for  no  one  had  tried  to  serve  her  at  more  peril  to 
himself.  He  said,  ‘  Madam,  I  have  tried  to  repair  my 
faults  committed  against  you,’  and  turned  away  with  a 
black  look  of  despair.  He  went  north,  as  she  thought,  lost 
to  her :  it  was  Bothwell  who  afterwards  told  her  that  he 
had  gone  to  summon  his  kindred  against  the  war  which  he 
saw  could  not  be  far  off.  So  scornful  are  women  to  those 
who  love  them  in  vain  —  that  should  surely  have  touched 
her,  but  did  not.  Lord  John  Hamilton  took  Huntly’s 
empty  place,  too  powerful  an  ally  to  be  despised. 

The  Earl  of  Argyll  came  and  went  between  Stirling  and 
Edinburgh,  very  diligent  to  accommodate  the  two  cities,  if 
that  might  be.  He  dared  —  or  was  fool  enough  —  to  tell  the 
Queen  that  all  would  be  well  if  she  would  give  up  the 
King’s  murderers.  She  replied :  ‘  Go  back  to  Stirling, 
then,  and  take  them.  I  do  give  them  up.  It  is  there  you 
shall  find  them.’  Whether  he  knew  this  to  be  truth  or 
not,  for  certain  he  did  not  report  the  message  to  the  Earl 
of  Morton.  It  would  have  fared  ill  with  him  if  he  had. 

Before  he  could  come  back,  a  baffled  but  honest  inter¬ 
mediary,  Lethington  had  fled  the  Court  and  taken  his  wife 
with  him.  He  went  out,  as  he  said,  to  ride  in  the  meadows  ; 
he  did  ride  there,  but  did  not  return.  His  wife  slipt  away 
separately,  and  joined  her  man  at  Callander ;  thence,  when 
Lord  Livingstone  sent  them  word  that  he  could  not  harbour 
the  Queen’s  enemies,  they  went  on  to  Lord  Fleming’s, 
Mary’s  father’s  house,  and  finally  to  Stirling.  It  was  a 
bad  sign  that  the  gentle  girl,  flying  like  a  thief  at  her 


CH.  IX 


THE  BRIDE’S  TRAGEDY 


481 


husband’s  bidding,  should  write  no  word,  nor  send  any 
message  to  the  Queen ;  it  was  a  worse  to  the  last  few 
faithful  that  the  Queen  took  no  notice.  All  she  was  heard 
to  say  was  that  Fleming  could  not  be  blamed  for  paying 
her  merchet. 

Mercheta  Mulierum ,  Market  of  Women  —  the  money-fee 
exacted  by  the  lord  of  the  soil  before  a  girl  could  be  wed, 
clean,  to  the  man  who  chose  her !  Livingstone  had  paid 
it,  Beaton  had  paid  it;  she,  Queen  Mary,  God  knows!  had 
paid  it  deep.  She  shook  her  head  —  and  was  Fleming  to 
escape  ?  ‘  No  !  but  Love  —  that  exorbitant  lord  —  will 

have  it  of  all  of  us  women.  And  now’s  for  you, 
Seton  !  ’ 

She  looked  strangely  at  the  glowing,  golden-haired  girl 
before  her;  the  green-eyed,  the  sharp-tongued  Mary  Seton, 
last  of  her  co-adventurers  of  six  years  agone.  Fair  Seton 
made  no  promises ;  but  all  the  world  knows  that  she  alone 
stayed  by  her  lady  to  the  long  and  very  end. 

Returned  from  Stirling,  my  Lord  of  Argyll,  with  per¬ 
turbed  face,  disorderly  dress,  and  entire  absence  of  manners, 
broke  in  upon  the  Queen’s  privacy,  claiming  secret  words. 
The  lords  were  prepared  for  the  field.  They  intended  an 
attack  upon  the  lower  town  by  land  and  water;  they  would 
surround  Holyroodhouse,  seize  her  person. 

She  flamed.  ‘You  mean  my  husband’s.  It  is  him  they 
seek.’ 

He  did  not  affect  to  deny  it.  She  sent  for  Bothwell  and 
told  him  all. 

Bothwell  said  :  ‘You  are  right.  They  want  me.  Well, 
they  shall  not  have  me  so  easily.  You  and  I  will  away 
this  night  to  Borthwick.  Arbroath  will  be  half  way  to  us 
by  now,  and  the  Gordons  not  far  behind.  Let  Adam  go 
and  hasten  his  brother.  Madam,  we  should  be  speedy. 

She  took  Seton  with  her — having  no  other  left ;  she  took 
Des-Essars.  Arthur  Erskine  was  to  captain  Holyrood¬ 
house.  Bothwell  had,  perhaps,  half  a  dozen  of  his 
dependents.  They  went  after  dark,  but  in  safety. 

There,  at  Borthwick,  they  stayed  quietly  through  the 
8th  and  9th  of  June  :  close  weather,  with  thunder  brewing. 

No  news  of  Huntly,  none  of  the  Hamiltons.  Bothwell 


482 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


was  out  each  day  for  long  spells,  spying  and  judging.  He 
opened  communication  with  Dunbar,  got  in  touch  with  his 
own  country.  At  home  sat  the  Queen  with  her  two  friends, 
very  silent. 

What  was  there  to  say  ?  Who  could  nurse  her  broken 
heart  save  this  one  man,  who  had  no  thought  to  do  it,  nor 
any  heart  of  his  own,  either,  to  spare  for  her?  Spited  had 
he  been  by  Fortune,  without  doubt.  He  had  had  the 
Crown  and  Mantle  of  Scotland  in  his  pair  of  hands ;  having 
schemed  for  six  years  to  get  them,  he  had  had  them,  and 
felt  their  goodly  weight :  and  here  he  was  now  in  hiding, 
trusting  for  bare  life  to  the  help  of  men  who  had  no  reason 
to  love  him.  Where,  then,  were  his  friends  ?  He  had 
none,  nor  ever  had  but  one  —  this  fair,  frail  woman,  whom 
he  had  desired  for  her  store,  and  had  emptied,  and  would 
now  be  rid  of. 

If  his  was  a  sorry  case,  what  was  hers  ?  Alas,  the  heart 
sickens  to  think  of  it.  With  how  high  a  head  came  she  in, 
she  and  her  cohort  of  maids,  to  win  wild  Scotland  !  Where 
were  they  ?  They  had  received  their  crowns,  but  she 
had  besoiled  and  bedrabbled  hers.  They  had  lovers,  they 
had  children,  they  had  troops  of  friends ;  but  she,  who  had 
sought  with  panting  mouth  for  very  love,  had  had  husbands 
who  made  love  stink,  and  a  child  denied  her,  and  no  friend 
in  Scotland  but  a  girl  and  a  poor  boy.  You  say  she  had 
sought  wrongly.  I  say  she  had  overmastering  need  to 
seek.  Love  she  must ;  and  if  she  loved  amiss  it  was  that 
she  loved  too  well.  You  say  that  she  misused  her  friends. 
I  deny  that  a  girl  set  up  where  she  was  could  have  any 
friends  at  all.  She  was  a  well  of  sweet  profit  —  the  Honey- 
pot  ;  and  they  swarmed  about  her  for  their  meat  like  house¬ 
flies  ;  and  when  that  was  got,  and  she  drained  dry,  they 
departed  by  the  window  in  clouds,  to  settle  and  fasten  about 
the  nearest  provand  they  could  meet  with:  carrion  or  honey¬ 
comb,  man’s  flesh,  dog’s  flesh  or  maid’s  flesh,  what  was  it 
to  them  ?  In  those  days  of  dreadful  silent  waiting  at 
Borthwick,  less  than  a  month  after  marriage,  I  tell  you 
very  plainly  that  she  was  beggared  of  all  she  had  in  the 
world,  and  knew  it.  The  glutted  flies  had  gone  by  the 
window,  the  gorged  rats  had  scampered  by  the  doors.  So 


CH.  IX 


THE  BRIDE’S  TRAGEDY 


483 


she  remained  alone  with  the  man  she  had  risked  all  to  get, 
who  was  scheming  to  be  rid  of  her.  Her  heart  was  broken, 
her  love  was  murdered,  her  spirit  was  gone :  what  more 
could  she  suffer  ?  One  more  thing  —  bodily  terror,  bodily 
fear. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  BORTHWICK 

"1  he  i oth  of  June  had  been  a  thunderous  day,  and  was 
followed  by  a  stifling  night.  In  the  lower  parlour  where 
the  Queen  lay  the  candles  seemed  to  be  clogged,  the  air 
charged  with  steam.  Mary  Seton  sat  on  the  floor  by  the 
couch,  Des-Essars,  bathed  in  sweat,  leaned  against  the 
window-sill.  In  the  hall  beyond  could  be  heard  Bothwell’s 
voice,  grating  querulously  to  young  Crookstone  and  Paris 
about  his  ruined  chances.  He  was  not  laughing  any  more 
.was  not  one,  it  was  found,  to  bear  misfortunes  gaily. 
His  tongue  had  mastered  him  of  late,  and  his  hand  too.  He 
had  nearly  killed  Paris  that  morning  with  one  smashing  blow. 

.There  came  a  puff  of  wind,  with  branches  sweeping  the 
window,  the  pattering,  swishing  sound  as  of  heavy  rain. 

Thank  God  for  rain  !  Baptist,  the  window,  lest  I  suffocate, 
e  ram  will  cool  the  air/  He  set  it  wide  open,  and 
leaned  out.  There  was  no  rain  at  all ;  but  the  sky  was  a 
vaporous  vault,  through  which,  in  every  part,  the  veiled 
moon  diffused  her  light.  He  saw  a  man  standing  on  the 
grass  as  plainly  as  you  see  this  paper,  who  presently,  after 
considering  him,  went  away  towards  the  woods.  It  mi°-ht 
have  been  one  of  their  own  sentries,  it  might  have  been  any 
one:  but  why  did  it  make  his  heart  beat?  He  stayed 
where  he  was,  watching  intently,  considering  with  himself 
whether  he  should  tell  the  Queen,  or  by  some  ruse  let  my 
lord  have  warning  without  her  knowledge.  Then,  while  he 
was  hammering  it  out,  she  got  up  and  came  to  the  window 
and  leaned  over  him,  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

484 


ch.  x  THE  KNOCKING  AT  BORTHWICK  485 


‘  Poor  prisoners,  you  and  I,  my  Baptist.’ 

He  turned  to  her  with  burning  eyes.  ‘  Madam,  there 
can  be  no  prison  for  me  where  you  are;  but  my  heart 
walks  with  yours  through  all  space.’ 

‘  My  heart,’  she  said,  ‘  limps,  and  soon  will  be  bed¬ 
ridden  ;  and  then  yours  will  stop.  You  are  tied  to 
me,  and  I  to  him.  The  world  has  gone  awry  with  us,  my 
dear.’ 

Very  nervous,  on  account  of  what  he  had  seen,  he  had 
no  answer  ready.  Thought,  feeling,  passion,  desire,  were 
all  boiling  and  stirring  together  in  his  brain.  The  blood 
drummed  at  his  ears,  like  a  call  to  arms. 

Suddenly  —  it  all  came  with  a  leap  —  there  was  hasty 
knocking  at  the  hall  doors,  and  at  the  same  instant  a  bench 
was  overturned  out  there,  and  Bothwell  went  trampling 
towards  the  sound.  Des-Essars,  tensely  moved,  shut  the 
windows  and  barred  the  shutters  over  them.  The  Queen 
watched  him — her  hands  held  her  bosom.  ‘What  is  it? 
Oh,  what  is  it  ?  ’ 

‘  Hush,  for  God’s  sake  !  Let  me  listen.’ 

Mary  Seton  opened  the  parlour  door,  as  calm  as  she 
had  ever  been.  They  listened  all. 

They  heard  a  clamour  of  voices  outside.  ‘Bothwell! 
Bothwell!  Let  us  in.’ 

‘  Who  are  ye  ?  ’ 

‘We  are  hunted  men — friends.  We  are  here  for  our 
lives.’ 

Bothwell  put  his  ear  close  to  the  door ;  his  mouth 
worked  fearfully,  all  his  features  were  distorted.  Heavens  ! 
how  he  listened. 

‘  Who  are  ye  ?  Tell  me  that.’ 

‘  Friends  —  friends  —  friends  !  ’ 

He  laughed  horribly — with  a  hollow,  barking  noise,  like 
a  leopard’s  cough.  ‘  By  my  God,  Lindsay,  I  know  ye 
now  for  a  fine  false  friend.  You  shall  never  take  me 
here.’ 

For  answer,  the  knocking  was  doubled;  men  rained 
blows  upon  the  door;  and  some  ran  round  to  the  windows 
and  jumped  up  at  them,  crying,  ‘Let  us  in  —  let  us  in!’ 
Some  glass  was  broken ;  but  the  shutter  held.  Mary 


486 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


Seton  held  the  Queen  close  in  her  arms,  Des-Essars 
stood  in  the  doorway  with  a  drawn  sword.  Bothwell 
came  up  to  him  for  a  moment.  4  By  God,  man,  we’re  rats 
in  a  drain  —  damned  rats,  by  my  soul !  Ha  !  ’  he  turned  as 
Paris  came  down  from  the  turret,  where  he  had  been  sent 
to  spy. 

The  house,  Paris  said,  was  certainly  surrounded.  The 
torches  made  it  plain  that  these  were  enemies.  He  had 
seen  my  lord  of  Morton  on  a  white  horse,  my  Lords 
Hume  and  Sempill  and  some  more. 

They  all  looked  at  each  other,  a  poor  ten  that  they 
were. 

‘Hark  to  them  now,  master,’  says  Paris.  ‘They  have 
a  new  cry.’ 

Bothwell  listened,  biting  his  tongue. 

‘  Murderer,  murderer,  come  out !  Come  out,  adulterous 
thief !  ’  This  was  Lindsay  again.  There  was  no  sound  of 
Morton’s  voice,  the  thick,  the  rich  and  mellow  note  he  had. 
But  who  was  Morton,  to  call  for  the  murderer? 

Paris,  after  spying  again,  said  that  they  were  going  to 
fire  the  doors ;  and  added,  ‘  Master,  it  is  hot  enough  with¬ 
out  a  fire.  We  had  best  be  off.’ 

Bothwell  looked  at  the  Queen.  ‘  My  dear,  I  must  go.’ 

She  barely  turned  her  eyes  upon  him;  but  she  said, 

‘  Do  you  leave  me  here  ?  ’  Scathing  question  from  a 
bride,  had  a  man  been  able  to  observe  such  things. 

He  said,  ‘  Ay,  I  do.  It  is  me  they  want,  these  dogs. 
You  will  be  safe  if  they  know  that  I  am  away —  and  I  will 
take  care  they  do  know  it.  I  go  to  Dunbar,  whence  you 
shall  hear  from  me  by  some  means.  Crookstone,  come 

you  with  me,  and  come  you,  Hobbie.  Paris,  you  stay 
here.’ 

‘  Pardon,  master,’  says  Paris,  ‘  I  go  with  your  lordship.’ 

Pale  Paris  was  measured  with  his  eye.  ‘  I’ll  kill  you  if 
you  do,  my  fine  man.’ 

‘  That  is  your  lordship’s  affair,’  says  Paris  with  deference ; 

‘  but  first  I  will  show  you  the  way  out.  There  are  horses 
in  the  undercroft.’ 

Bothwell  lifted  up  his  wife,  held  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  twice.  ‘  Fie,  you  are  cold !  ’  he  said,  and  put 


ch.  x  THE  KNOCKING  AT  BORTHWICK  487 


her  down.  She  had  lain  listless  against  him,  without 
kissing. 

He  turned  at  once  and  followed  Paris ;  young  Crook- 
stone  followed  him.  It  seems  that  he  got  clear  off  in  the 
way  he  intended,  for  the  noises  outside  the  house  ceased  ; 
and  in  the  grey  of  the  morning,  before  three  o’clock,  all 
was  quiet  about  the  policies.  They  must  have  been  within 
an  ace  of  capturing  him :  in  fact,  Paris  admitted  afterwards 
that  they  were  but  a  bowshot  away  at  one  time. 

The  Queen  sent  Seton  for  Des-Essars  at  about  four 
o’clock  in  the  morning.  Neither  mistress  nor  maid  had 
been  to  bed. 

He  found  her  in  a  high  fever;  her  eyes  glowing  like  jet, 
her  face  white  and  pinched ;  the  stroke  of  her  certain  fate 
drawing  down  her  mouth.  She  said,  ‘  I  have  been  a  false 
woman,  a  coward,  and  a  shame  to  my  race.’ 

‘  God  knows  your  Majesty  is  none  of  these.’ 

*  Baptist,  I  am  going  to  my  lord.’ 

‘  Oh,  madam,  God  forbid  you !  ’ 

‘  God  will  forbid  me  presently  if  I  do  not.  It  should 
have  been  last  night  —  I  may  be  too  late.  But  make 
haste.’ 

They  procured  a  guide  of  a  sort,  a  wretched  poltroon  of 
a  fellow,  who  twice  tried  to  run  for  it  and  leave  them  in 
Yester  woods.  Des-Essars,  after  the  second  attempt,  rode 
beside  him  with  a  cocked  pistol  in  his  hand.  From  Yester 
they  went  north  by  Haddington,  for  fear  of  Whittinge- 
hame  and  the  Douglases.  As  it  was,  they  had  to  skirt 
Lethington,  and  the  Secretary’s  fine  grey  house  there  in 
the  park  ;  but  the  place  was  close-barred  —  nothing  hindered 
them.  They  passed  unknown  through  Haddington,  the 
Queen  desperately  tired.  Sixteen  hours  in  the  saddle,  a 
cold  welcome  at  the  end. 

Both  well  received  them  without  cheer.  ‘You  would 
have  been  wiser  to  have  stayed.  Here  you  are  in  the 
midst  of  war.’ 

‘  My  place  was  by  your  side.’ 

The  mockery  of  the  thing  struck  him  all  at  once.  This 
schemed-for  life  of  his  —  a  vast,  empty  shell  of  a  house ! 


488 


THE  QUEEN’S QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


‘Oh,  God,  I  sicken  of  this  folly!’  He  turned  from 
her. 

She  had  nothing  to  say,  could  hardly  stand  on  her  feet. 
Seton  took  her  to  bed. 

A  message  next  day  from  Huntly  in  Edinburgh. 
Balfour  held  the  castle;  all  the  rest  of  the  town  was 
Grange’s.  Morton,  Atholl,  and  Lethington  were  rulers. 
Atholl  had  Holyroodhouse  ;  Lethington  and  his  wife  were 
with  Morton.  He  himself,  said  Huntly,  would  move  out 
in  a  day  or  two  and  join  the  Hamiltons  at  Dal¬ 
keith.  Let  Bothwell  raise  the  Merse  and  meet  them. 
He  named  Gladsmuir  for  rendezvous,  on  the  straight 
road  from  Haddington  to  the  city,  five  miles  by  west  of 
Haddington. 

Bothwell  read  all  this  to  the  Queen,  who  said  nothing. 
She  was  thinking  of  a  business  of  her  own,  as  appeared 
when  she  was  alone.  She  beckoned  up  Baptist. 

‘There’s  not  a  moment  to  be  lost.  Find  me  a  mes¬ 
senger,  a  trusty  one,  who  will  get  speech  with  Mary 
Fleming.’ 

‘  Madam,’  says  Baptist,  ‘  let  me  go.’ 

‘  No,  no  :  I  need  you.  Try  Paris  —  no!  my  lord  would 
never  spare  him.  And  he  would  deny  me  again.  Do  you 
choose  somebody.’ 

‘  What  is  he  to  say  to  her,  ma’am  ?  ’ 

‘  He  shall  speak  to  her  in  private.  She  knows  where 
my  coffer  is  —  my  casket.’ 

Ah  !  this  was  a  grave  affair.  Des-Essars  made  up  his 
mind  at  once.  ‘  Madam,’  he  said,  ‘  let  me  advise  your 
Majesty.  Either  send  me,  or  send  no  one.  If  you  send 
me  I  will  bring  the  casket  back.  That  I  promise.  If 
you  send  no  one  —  if  you  do  not  remind  her  —  it  will  slip 
her  memory.’ 

The  Queen’s  eyes  showed  her  fears.  ‘  Remember  you, 
Baptist,  of  my  casket.  If  Fleming  were  to  betray  me  to 
Lethington - ’  No  need  to  end. 

‘  Again  I  say,  madam,  send  me.’ 

She  thought;  but  even  so  her  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
which  began  to  fall  fast. 

‘  Dearest  madam,  do  you  weep  ?  ’ 


ch.  x  THE  KNOCKING  AT  BORTHWICK  489 

‘  I  cannot  let  you  go.  Do  not  ask  me  —  I  need  you 
here.’ 

He  leaned  to  her.  4  Alas,  what  can  I  do  to  help  your 
Majesty  ?  ’ 

She  took  his  hand.  ‘  Stay.  You  are  my  only  friend. 
The  end  is  not  far.  Have  a  little  patience  —  stay.’ 

‘  But  your  casket - ’ 

She  shook  her  head.  ‘  Let  all  go  now.  Stay  you 
with  me.’ 

‘  Certainly  I  will  stay  with  you/  he  said.  *  It  will  be  to 
see  you  triumph  over  your  enemies.’ 

And  again  she  shook  her  head.  ‘  Not  with  a  broken 
heart !  ’  Then  in  a  frightened  whisper  she  began  to  tell 
him  her  fears.  ‘  Do  you  know  what  they  make  ready  for 
me  ?  The  stake,  and  the  faggot,  and  the  fire !  Fire  for 
the  wife  that  slew  her  husband.  Baptist,  you  will  never 
forsake  me  now  !  This  is  my  secret  knowledge.  Never 
forsake  me  !  ’  She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder  and  cried 
there,  as  one  lost. 

Bothwell  burst  into  the  room  :  they  sprang  apart.  He 
was  eager,  flush  with  news.  ‘  We  march  to-morrow  with 
the  light.  My  men  are  coming  in — in  good  order.  Be 
of  good  cheer,  madam,  for  with  God’s  help  we  shall  pound 
these  knaves  properly.’ 

‘How  shall  God  help  us,  my  lord,’  said  she,  ‘who  have 
helped  not  Him  ?  ’ 

‘  Why,  then,  my  dear,’  cries  he  with  a  laugh,  ‘  why, 
then,  we  will  help  ourselves.’ 


CHAPTER  XI 

APPASSIONATA 

Grange,  that  fine  commander,  got  his  back  to  the  sun 
and  gave  the  lords  the  morning  advantage.  ‘  We  shall 
want  no  more  than  that,’  he  told  Morton ;  ‘  by  ten  o’clock 
they  will  be  here,  and  by  noon  we  shall  be  through  with  it.’ 

‘  Shall  we  out  banner,  think  you  ?  ’  says  Morton. 

‘  Nay,  my  lord,  nay.  Keep  her  back  the  now.’  Grange 
was  fighting  with  his  head,  disposing  his  host  according  to 
the  lie  of  the  ground,  and  his  reserves  also.  He  took  the 
field  before  dawn,  and  had  every  man  at  his  post  by  seven 
o’clock.  There  was  a  ground  mist,  and  the  sea  all  blotted 
out :  everything  promised  great  heat. 

They  were  to  be  seen,  a  waiting  host,  when  the  Queen 
crested  Carbery  Hill  and  watched  her  men  creep  round 
about ;  with  Erskine  beside  her  she  could  make  them  out 
—  arquebusiers,  pikemen,  and  Murrays  from  Atholl  on  the 
lowest  ground  (Tillibardine  leading  them),  on  either  wing 
horsemen  with  spears.  They  had  a  couple  of  brass  field- 
pieces  in  front.  One  could  see  the  chiefs  walking  their 
horses  up  and  down  the  lines,  or  pricking  forward  to  confer, 
or  clustering  together,  looking  to  where  one  pointed  with 
his  staff.  There  was  Morton  on  his  white  horse,  himself, 
portly  man,  in  black  with  a  steel  breast-plate  —  white  sash 
across  it  —  in  his  steel  bonnet  a  favour  of  white.  White 
was  their  badge,  then;  for,  looking  at  them  in  the  mass, 
the  host  was  seen  to  be  spattered  with  it,  as  if  in  a  neglected 
field  of  poppies  and  corncockles  there  grew  white  daisies 
interspersed.  The  stout  square  man  in  leather  jerkin  and 

490 


CH.  XI 


APPASSIONATA 


491 


/ 

buff  boots  was  Grange  —  on  a  chestnut  horse  ;  with  him  to 
their  right  rode  Atholl  on  a  black  —  Atholl  in  a  red  surtout, 
and  the  end  of  his  fine  beard  lost  in  the  white  sash  which 
he  too  had.  Who  is  the  slim  rider  in  black  —  haunting 
Atholl  like  a  shadow  ?  Who  but  careful  Mr.  Secretary 
Lethington  could  have  those  obsequious  shoulders,  that 
attentive  cock  of  the  head  ?  Lethington  was  there,  then  ! 
Ah !  and  there,  by  one  s  soul,  was  Archie  Douglas’s  grey 
young  head,  and  his  white  minister’s  ruff,  where  a  red 
thread  of  blood  ought  to  be.  Glencairn  was  there,  Lindsay, 
Sempill,  Rothes  —  all  those  strong  tradesmen,  who  had  lied 
for  their  profit,  and  were  now  come  to  claim  wages  :  all  of 
them  but  the  trader  of  traders,  the  white-handed  prayerful 

man,  the  good  Lari  of  Moray,  safe  in  France,  waiting  his 
turn. 

So  prompt  as  they  stood  down  there  in  the  grey  haze,  all 
rippling  in  the  heat ;  without  sound  of  trumpet  or  any  noise 
but  the  whinnying  of  a  horse ;  without  any  motion  save 
now  and  then,  when  some  trooper  plunged  out  of  line  and 
must  pull  back  —  that  thing  of  all  significant  things  about 
them  was  marked  by  the  Oueen,  who  stood  shading  her 
eyes  from  the  sun  atop  of  Carbery  Hill.  ‘  Oh,  Erskine  !  ’ 
she  said,  ‘oh,  Bothwell !  they  have  no  standard.  Against 
whom,  then,  do  we  fight  ?  ’ 

Bothwell,  exasperated  by  anxiety,  made  short  answer: 

‘  It  is  plain  enough  to  see  what  and  who  they  are.  They 
are  men  —  desperate  men.  They  are  men  for  whom  loss 
means  infamous  death.  For,  mark  you  well,  madam,  if 
Morton  lose  this  day  he  loses  his  head.’ 

/  Ay,’  she  gloomed,  ‘  and  many  more  shall  lose  theirs.  I 
will  have  Lindsay’s  and  Archie’s  — and  you  shall  have 
Lethington’s.’ 

‘  I  would  have  had  that  long  ago,  if  you  had  listened  to 
me.  And  now  you  see  whether  I  was  right  or  wrong.  But 
when  women  take  to  ruling  men  - - ’ 

She  touched  his  arm.  ‘  Dear  friend,  for  whom  I  have 
suffered  many  things,  do  not  reproach  me  at  this  hour.’ 
The  tears  were  in  her  eyes  —  she  was  always  quick  at 
self-pity. 

But  he  had  turned  his  head.  ‘Ha!  they  need  me, 


492 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


I  see.  Forgive  me,  madam,  I  must  have  a  word  with 
Ormiston.’  He  saluted  and  rode  down  to  meet  his  allies. 
Monsieur  Du  Croc,  the  French  Ambassador,  approached 
her,  hat  in  hand.  He  was  full  of  sympathy ;  but,  with  his 
own  theories  of  how  to  end  this  business,  could  not  give 
advice. 

Sir  James  Melvill,  watching  the  men  come  up,  shook  his 
head  at  the  look  of  them.  ‘  No  heart  in  their  chance  —  no 
heart  at  all,’  he  was  heard  to  say. 

The  Queen’s  forces  deployed  across  the  eastern  face  of 
Carbery  Hill  in  a  long  line  which,  it  was  clear,  was  not  of 
equal  strength  with  the  lords’.  It  became  less  so  as  the 
day  wore ;  for  had  you  looked  to  its  right  you  would  have 
seen  a  continual  trickle  of  stooping,  running  men  crossing 
over  to  the  enemy.  These  were  deserters  at  the  eleventh 
hour ;  Bothwell  rode  one  of  them  down,  chased  him,  and 
when  he  fell  drove  his  horse  over  him  and  over  in  a  blind 
fury  of  rage,  trampling  him  out  of  semblance  to  his  kind. 
It  stayed  the  leak  for  a  while ;  but  it  began  again,  and  he 
had  neither  heart  nor  time  to  deal  with  it.  Where  were 
the  Hamiltons  who  should  have  been  with  her  ?  Where, 
alas,  were  the  Gordons  ?  In  place  of  them  the  Borderers 
and  Foresters  looked  shaggy  thieves  —  gypsies,  hill-robbers, 
savage  men,  red-haired,  glum-faced,  many  without  shoes 
and  some  without  breeches.  The  tressured  Lion  of  Scot¬ 
land  was  in  Arthur  Erskine’s  hold :  at  near  ten  o’clock 
Bothwell  bade  him  display  it.  It  unfurled  itself  lazily  its 
full  length ;  but  there  was  no  breath  of  air.  It  clung  about 
the  staff  like  so  much  water-weed  ;  and  they  never  saw  the 
Lion.  No  matter ;  it  would  be  a  sign  to  that  watchful  host 
in  the  plain :  now  let  us  see  what  flag  they  dare  to  fly. 
They  waited  tensely  for  it,  a  group  of  them  together  —  the 
Queen  with  her  wild  tawny  hair  fallen  loose,  her  bare  thin 
neck,  her  short  red  petticoat  and  blue  scarf ;  Bothwell 
biting  his  tongue ;  Ormiston,  Des-Essars,  sage  Monsieur 
Du  Croc. 

They  saw  two  men  come  out  of  the  line  bearing  two  spears 
close  together.  At  a  word  they  separated,  backing  from 
each  other :  a  great  white  sheet  was  displayed,  having  some 
picture  upon  it  —  green,  a  blot  like  blood,  a  wavy  legend 


CH.  XI 


APPASSIONATA 


493 


above.  One  could  make  out  a  tree ;  but  what  was  the  red 
stain  ?  They  talked  —  the  Queen  very  fast  and  excitedly. 
She  must  know  what  this  was  —  she  would  go  down  and 
find  out  —  it  was  some  insult,  she  expected.  Was  that  red 
a  fire  ?  Who  would  go  ?  Des-Essars  offered,  but  she 
refused  him.  She  chose  Lord  Livingstone  for  the  service, 
and  he  went,  gallantly  enough  —  and  returned,  a  scared  old 
optimist  indeed.  However,  she  would  have  it,  so  she 
learned  that  they  had  the  King  lying  dead  under  a  tree,  and 
the  Prince  his  son  praying  at  his  feet  —  with  the  legend, 
‘Judge  and  avenge  my  cause,  O  Lord!’  The  red  was 
not  a  fire,  but  the  Prince’s  robe.  The  Queen  cried  out : 
*  Infamy  !  Infamy  !  They  carry  their  own  condemnation 
—  do  you  not  see  it  ?  ’  If  anybody  did,  he  did  not  say  so. 

Monsieur  Du  Croc  had  his  way  at  last,  and  was  allowed 
to  carry  messages  between  the  hosts.  The  burden  of  all 
that  he  brought  back  was  that  the  lords  would  obey  the 
Queen  if  she  would  give  up  the  murderers,  whom  they 
named.  The  offer  was  ludicrous,  coming  from  Morton  — 
but  when  she  ordered  Du  Croc  back  to  expose  it,  he  fairly 
told  her  to  read  below  the  words.  They  had  come  for 
Lord  Bothwell.  ‘  I  will  die  sooner  than  let  him  be 
touched,’  said  she.  ‘Let  some  one  —  Hob  Ormiston,  go 
you  —  fetch  Grange  to  speak  with  me.’  Hob  went  off, 
with  a  white  scarf  in  his  held-up  hand ;  and  the  Queen 
rode  half-way  down  the  hill  for  the  parley.  The  great 
banner  dazzled  her :  it  was  noticed  that  she  bent  her  head 
down,  as  one  rides  against  the  sun. 

Grange  came  leisurely  up  towards  her  —  a  rusty  man  of 
war,  shrewd,  terse,  and  weathered.  He  could  only  report 
what  his  masters  bade  him :  they  called  for  the  surrender 
of  the  murderers.  She  flamed  and  faced  him  with  her 
royal  anger.  ‘  And  I,  your  sovereign  lady,  bid  you, 
Grange,  go  over  there  and  bring  the  murderers  to  me. 
Look,  there  goes  one  on  his  white  horse  !  And  there 
shirk  two  after  him,  hiding  behind  him  —  the  one  with  a 
grey  head,  and  the  other  with  a  grey  face.  Fetch  you  me 
those.’ 

‘  Pah  •  ’  snarled  Bothwell,  ‘  we  talk  for  ever.  Let  me 


494 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


shoot  down  this  dog.’  A  Hepburn  —  quiet  and  sinewy  — 
stepped  out  of  the  ranks  with  a  horse-pistol.  Grange 
watched  him  without  moving  a  muscle  ;  but  ‘  Oh  !  ’  cried 
the  Queen,  ‘  what  villainy  are  you  about  ?  ’  She  struck 
down  the  pistol-arm,  —  as  once  before  she  had  struck  down 
Fawdonsyde’s. 

Bothwell,  red  in  the  face,  said,  ‘  Let  us  end  this  folly. 
Let  him  who  calls  for  me  come  and  fetch  me.  I  will  fight 
with  him  here  and  now.  Go  you,  Grange,  and  bring  my 
Lord  Morton  hither.’ 

‘  No  need  for  his  lordship,  if  I  will  serve  your  turn,  Earl 
of  Bothwell,’  says  Grange. 

But  Bothwell  said,  ‘  Damn  your  soul,  I  fight  with  my 
equals.  None  knows  it  better  than  you.’  He  would  have 
no  one  below  an  Earl’s  rank — himself  being  now,  you 
must  recollect,  Duke  of  Orkney  and  Zetland  —  and  it 
should  be  Morton  for  choice. 

Grange,  instructed  by  the  Queen,  rode  back.  They 
saw  Morton  accost  him,  listen,  look  over  the  valley.  He 
called  a  conference  —  they  talked  vehemently :  then  Morton 
and  Lindsay  pricked  forward  up  the  hill,  and  stopped 
within  hailing  distance. 

‘You,  Bothwell,’  cried  Morton,  ‘  come  you  down,  then ; 
and  have  at  you  here.’ 

The  Queen’s  high  voice  called  clearly  back.  ‘  He  shall 
never  fight  with  you,  murderer.’ 

Lindsay  bared  his  head.  ‘  Then  let  him  take  me, 
madam ;  for  I  am  nothing  of  that  sort.’ 

‘No,  no,  Lindsay,’  said  Bothwell;  ‘I  have  no  quarrel 
with  you.’ 

The  Earl  of  Morton  had  been  looking  at  Bothwell  in 
his  heavy,  ruminating  way,  as  if  making  up  his  mind. 
While  the  others  were  bandying  their  cries,  the  Queen’s 
voice  flashing  and  shrieking  above  the  rest,  he  still  looked 
and  turned  his  thoughts  over.  Presently  —  in  his  time  — 
he  gave  Lindsay  his  sword  and  walked  his  horse  up  the 
hill  to  the  Queen’s  party.  He  saluted  her  gravely.  ‘With 
your  gracious  leave,  madam,  I  seek  to  put  two  words  into 
my  Lord  Both  well’s  ear.  You  see  I  have  no  sword.’ 

The  Queen  looked  at  once  to  her  husband.  He  nodded, 


CH.  XI 


APPASSIONATA 


495 


gave  his  sword  to  Huntly,  and  said,  ‘  I  am  ready  for  you.’ 

They  moved  ten  yards  apart ;  Morton  talked  and  the  other 
listened. 

Bothwell,  my  man,’  he  said,  ‘there’s  no  a  muckle  to 
pick  between  us,  I  doubt  —  I  played  one  card  and  you 
another ;  but  I  have  the  advantage  of  ye  just  now,  and 
am  no  that  minded  to  take  it  up.  Man!’  he  chuckled, 
‘ye  stumbled  sorely  when  ye  let  them  find  for  the 
powder !  ’ 

‘  Get  on,  get  on,’  says  Bothwell,  drawing  a  great  breath. 

‘  I  will,’  Morton  said.  ‘  I  am  here  to  advise  ye  to  make 
off  while  you  can.  Go  your  ways  to  Dunbar,  and  avoid 
the  country  for  a  while.  I’ll  warrant  you  you’ll  not  be 
followed  oversea.  All  my  people  will  serve  the  Queen  — 
have  no  fear  for  her.  Now,  take  my  advice;  ’tis  fairly 
given.  I’ve  no  wish  to  work  you  a  mischief  —  though, 
mind  you,  I  have  the  power  —  for  you  and  I  have  been 
open  dealers  with  each  other  this  long  time.  And  you 
brought  me  home  —  I’m  not  one  to  forget  it.  But  —  Lord 
of  Hosts!  what  chance  have  you  against  Grange?’  He 
waited.  ‘  Come  now,  come  !  what  say  you  ?  ’ 

Lord  Bothwell  considered  it,  working  his  strong  jaw 
from  side  to  side :  a  fair  proffer,  an  honourable  proffer. 
He  looked  at  the  forces  against  him  —  though  he  had  no 
need ;  he  knew  them  better  men  than  his,  because  Grange 
was  a  better  man  than  he.  That  banner  of  murder  —  the 
cry  behind  it  — the  Prince  behind  the  cry,  up  on  the  rock 
of  Stirling:  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  had  lost  the 
game.  No  way  to  Stirling  —  no  way  !  But  the  other  way 
was  the  sea-way —  the  old  free  life,  the  chances  of  the  open 
water.  Eh,  damn  them,  he  was  not  to  be  King  of  Scots, 
then!  But  he  had  known  that  for  a  week.  He  turned 
his  head  and  saw  the  sea  like  molten  gold,  and  far  off, 
dipped  in  it,  a  little  ship  with  still  sails  — Ho!  the 
sea-way ! 

‘By  God,  Morton,’  he  said,  ‘you  may  be  serving  me. 
I’ll  do  it.’ 

‘  Go  and  tell  her,’  says  Morton ;  and  they  both  went 
back  to  the  Queen. 

Both  took  off  their  bonnets.  Bothwell  said  :  ‘  Madam, 


496 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


we  must  avoid  blood-shedding  if  we  may,  and  I  have  talked 
with  my  lord  of  Morton.  He  makes  an  offer  of  fair  dealing, 
which  I  have  taken.  I  have  a  clear  road  to  Dunbar,  thence 
where  I  will.  All  these  hosts  will  follow  you  if  I  am  not 
there.  They  pay  me  the  compliment  of  high  distrust,  you 
perceive.  After  a  little,  I  doubt  not  but  you  shall  see  me 
back  again  where  I  would  always  be.  Madam,  get  the 
Prince  in  your  own  hands  :  all  depends  upon  him.  And 
now,  kiss  me,  sweetheart,  for  I  must  be  away.’ 

She  heard  him  —  she  understood  him  —  she  believed  him. 
She  was  curious  to  observe  that  she  felt  so  little.  Her 
voice  when  she  answered  him  had  no  spring  in  it  —  it  was 
worn  and  thin,  with  a  little  grating  rasp  in  it  —  an  older 
voice. 

‘  It  may  be  better  so.  I  hate  to  shed  good  blood. 
Whither  shall  I  write  to  you  ?  At  Dunbar  ?  In  England  ? 
Flanders  ?  ’  There  had  been  a  woman  in  Dunkirk — she 
remembered  that. 

He  was  looking  away,  answering  at  random,  searching 
whom  he  should  take  with  him,  or  on  whom  he  could 
reckon  to  follow  him  if  he  asked.  ‘  I  will  send  you  word. 
Yes,  yes,  you  will  write  to  me.  You  shall  know  full  soon. 
But  now  I  cannot  stay.’ 

Morton  had  returned  to  his  friends. 

‘  Paris,  come  you  with  me.  Ormiston,  are  you  for  the 
sea?  No?  Stay  and  be  hanged,  then.  Hob?  What, 
man,  afraid  ?  Where  is  Michael  Elliott  ?  Where  is 
Crookstone  ?  What  Hepburn  have  I  ?  ’  He  collected 
six  or  eight  —  both  the  Ormistons  decided  for  him  —  Powrie 
and  Wilson,  Dalgleish,  one  or  two  more. 

He  took  the  Queen’s  hand  gaily.  ‘  Farewell,  fair 
Queen  !  ’  he  said  ;  and  she,  ‘Adieu,  my  lord.’  He  leaned 
towards  her :  ‘  One  kiss,  my  wife  !  ’  but  she  drew  back. 

‘  Your  lips  are  foul  —  you  have  kissed  too  many  —  no,  no.’ 

‘  I  must  have  it  —  you  must  kiss  me  ’  —  he  pressed  against 
her.  For  a  while  she  was  agitated,  defending  herself ;  but 
then,  with  a  sob,  ‘  Ay,  take  what  you  will  of  me,’  she  said 
—  ‘  it  is  little  worth.’  He  got  his  cold  kiss,  and  rode  fast 
through  his  scattering  host.  This  going  of  his  was  the 
Parthian  shot.  He  had  beaten  her.  Desire  was  dead. 


ch.  xi  APPASSIONATA  497 

The  Queen  sat  still  —  with  a  face  like  a  rock.  ‘Has  he 
gone  ?  ’  she  asked  Des-Essars  in  a  whisper. 

‘Yes,  thank  God,’  said  he. 

She  shook  herself  into  action,  gathered  up  the  reins,  and 
turned  to  Erskine.  ‘  Come,’  she  said,  ‘  we  will  go  down  to 
them  now.’ 

She  surrendered  to  the  Earl  of  Atholl,  who,  with  Sempill 
and  Lindsay,  came  up  to  fetch  her.  Followed  by  one  or 
two  of  her  friends  —  Des-Essars,  Melvill,  Du  Croc,  and 
Livingstone  —  she  rode  down  the  hill  from  her  host  and 
joined  the  other.  Grange  cantered  up,  bareheaded,  to  meet 
her,  reined  up  short,  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  Many 
followed  him  —  Glencairn,  Glamis,  young  Ruthven.  Each 
had  his  kiss ;  but  then  came  Archie  Douglas  smelling  and 
smiling  for  his  —  and  got  nothing.  She  drew  back  from 
him  shuddering :  he  might  have  been  a  snake,  he  said. 
Lethington  was  not  to  be  seen.  The  host  stood  at  ease 
awaiting  her ;  the  white  banner  wagged  and  dipped,  as  if 
mocking  her  presence.  ‘Take  that  down,’  she  said,  with  a 
crack  in  her  dry  throat ;  but  no  one  answered  her.  She 
had  to  go  close  by  the  hateful  thing  — a  daub  of  red  and 
green  and  yellow  —  crowned  Darnley  crudely  lying  under  a 
tree,  a  crowned  child  kneeling  at  his  feet,  spewing  the 
legend  out  of  his  mouth.  She  averted  her  eyes  and  blinked 
as  she  passed  it:  an  ominous  silence  greeted  her,  sullen 
looks  ;  one  or  two  steady  starers  showed  scornful  familiarity 
with  ‘  a  woman  in  trouble  ’ ;  one  said  ‘  Losh  !  ’  and  spat  as 
she  passed. 

She  was  led  through  the  Murrays,  Humes,  and  Lindsays ; 
murmurs  gathered  about  her ;  all  eyes  were  on  her  now, 
some  passionate,  some  vindictive,  some  fanatic.  On  a 
sudden  a  pikeman  ran  out  of  his  ranks  and  pointed  at 
her  his  face  was  burnt  almost  black,  his  eyes  showed 
white  upon  it.  ‘  Burn  the  hure  !  ’  he  raved,  and  when  she 
caught  her  breath  and  gazed  at  him,  he  was  answered,  ‘  Ay, 
ay,  man.  Let  her  burn  herself  clean.  To  the  fire  with 
her  !  ’ 

Her  fine  heart  stood  still.  ‘  Oh  !  ’  she  said,  shocked  into 
childish  utterance,  ‘  oh,  Baptist,  they  speak  of  me.  They 
will  burn  me  —  did  you  hear  them  ?  ’  Her  head  was  thrown 


49§ 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


back,  her  arm  across  her  face.  She  broke  into  wild  sobbing 

—  ‘Not  the  fire !  Not  the  fire  !  Oh,  pity  me  !  Oh,  keep 
me  from  them  !  ’ 

‘  Quick,  man,’  said  Atholl,  ‘  let  us  get  her  in.’  Orders 
were  shortly  given,  lieutenants  galloped  left  and  right  to 
carry  the  words.  The  companies  formed ;  the  monstrous 
banner  turned  about.  Morton  bade  sound  the  advance  ; 
between  him  and  Atholl  she  was  led  towards  Edinburgh. 
‘  If  Erskine  is  a  man  he  will  try  a  rescue,’  thought 
Des-Essars,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder  to  Carbery  Hill 

—  now  a  bare  brae.  The  Queen’s  army  had  vanished  like 
the  smoke. 

So  towards  evening  they  came  to  town,  heralded  by 
scampering  messengers,  and  met  by  the  creatures  of  the 
suburb,  horrible  women  and  the  men  who  lived  upon  them 

—  dancing  about  her,  mocking  obscenely,  hailing  her  as  a 
spectacle.  She  bowed  her  head,  swaying  about  in  the 
saddle.  Way  was  driven  through  ;  they  passed  under  the 
gates,  and  began  to  climb  the  long  street,  packed  from  wall 
to  wall  with  raving,  cursing  people.  They  shook  their  fists 
at  her,  threw  their  bonnets  ;  stones  flew  about  —  she  might 
have  been  killed  outright.  The  cries  were  terrible  —  ‘  Burn 
her,  burn  her  !  Nay,  let  her  drown,  the  witch !  ’  Dust, 
heat,  turmoil,  a  brown  fetid  air,  hatred  and  clamour  —  the 
houses  seemed  to  whirl  and  dizzy  about  her.  The  earth 
rocked  ;  the  people,  glued  in  masses  of  black  and  white, 
surged  stiffly,  like  great  sea  waves.  Pale  as  death,  with 
shut  eyes  and  moving,  dumb  lips,  she  wavered  on  her  seat, 
held  up  on  either  side  by  a  man’s  arm.  Des-Essars  prayed 
aloud  that  a  stone  might  strike  her  dead. 

They  took  her  to  a  house  by  the  Tron  Church,  a  house 
in  the  High  Street,  and  shut  her  in  an  upper  room,  setting 
a  guard  about  the  door.  The  white  banner  was  planted 
before  the  windows,  and  the  crowd  swarmed  all  about  it, 
shrieking  her  name,  calling  her  to  come  out  and  dance 
before  them.  Her  dancing  was  notorious,  poor  soul; 
many  a  mad  bout  had  she  had  in  her  careless  days. 
‘  Show  your  legs,  my  bonnie  wife !  ’  cried  some  hoarse 
shoemaker.  ‘You  had  no  shame  to  do  it  syne.’  This 
lasted  till  near  midnight  —  for  when  it  grew  dark  torches 


CH.  XI 


APPASSIONATA 


499 


were  kindled  from  end  to  end  of  the  street,  drums  and 
pipes  were  set  going,  and  many  a  couple  danced.  The 
Queen  during  this  hellish  night  was  crouched  upon  the 
floor,  hiding  her  face  upon  Mary  Seton’s  bosom.  Des- 
Essars  knelt  by  her,  screening  her  from  the  windows. 
She  neither  spoke  nor  wept  —  seemed  in  a  stupor.  Food 
was  brought  her,  but  she  would  not  move  to  take  it;  nor 
would  she  open  her  mouth  when  the  cup  was  held  at  her 
lips. 

Next  morning,  having  had  a  few  hours’  peace,  the 
tumult  began  betimes  —  by  six  o’clock  the  din  was  deafen¬ 
ing.  She  had  had  a  sop  in  wine,  and  was  calmer ;  talked 
a  little,  even  peeped  through  the  curtain  at  the  gathering 
crowd.  She  watched  it  for,  perhaps,  an  hour,  until  they 
brought  the  mermaid  picture  into  action  —  herself  naked  to 
the  waist,  with  a  fish-tail — confronted  it  with  the  murder 
flag,  and  jigged  it  up  against  it.  This  angered  her;  colour 
burned  in  her  white  cheeks.  4  Infamous  !  Swine  that  they 
are!  I  will  brave  them  all.’ 

Before  they  could  stop  her  she  had  thrown  open  the 
window,  and  stood  outside  on  the  balcony,  proudly  sur¬ 
veying  and  surveyed. 

At  first  there  was  a  hush  —  ‘Whisht!  She  will  likely 
speak  till  us,’  they  told  each  other.  But  she  said  nothing, 
and  gave  them  time  to  mark  her  tumbled  bodice  and  short 
kirtle,  her  wild  hair  and  stained  face.  They  howled  at 
her,  mocking  and  gibing  at  her  —  the  two  banners  flacked 
like  tailless  kites.  Presently  a  horseman  came  at  a  foot’s 
pace  through  the  press.  The  rider  when  he  saw  her  pulled 
his  hat  down  over  his  eyes  —  but  it  was  too  late.  She  had 
seen  Lethington.  ‘  Ha,  traitor,  whose  rat-life  I  saved 
once,’  she  called  out,  in  a  voice  desperately  clear  and  cold, 

‘  are  you  come  to  join  your  friends  against  me  ?  Stay, 
Mr.  Secretary,  and  greet  your  Queen  in  the  way  they  will 
teach  you.  Or  go,  fetch  your  wife,  that  she  may  thank 
her  benefactress  with  you.  Do  you  go,  Mr.  Secretary  ?  ’ 

He  was,  in  fact,  going ;  for  the  crowd  had  turned 
against  him  and  was  bidding  him  fetch  his  wife.  ‘  Give 
us  the  Popish  Maries  together,  sir,  and  we’ll  redd  Scotland 
of  them  a’.’ 


5oo 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


‘  Rid  Scotland  of  this  fellow,  good  people,’  cried  the 
Queen,  ‘and  there  will  be  room  for  one  honest  man.’ 

They  jeered  at  her  for  her  pains.  ‘  Who  shall  be  honest 
where  ye  are,  woman  ?  Hide  yourself  —  pray  to  your  idols 
—  that  they  keep  ye  from  the  fire.’ 

‘Oh,  men,  you  do  me  wrong,’  she  began  to  moan. 
‘Oh,  sirs,  be  pitiful  to  a  woman.  Have  I  ever  harmed 
any  ?  ’ 

They  shrieked  her  down,  cursing  her  for  a  witch  and  a 
husband-killer.  The  flags  were  jigged  together  again  —  a 
stone  broke  the  window  over  her  head.  Des-Essars  then 
got  her  back  by  force. 

It  is  amazing  that  she  could  have  a  thought  in  such  a 
riot  of  fiends  —  yet  the  sight  of  Lethington  had  given  her 
one.  She  feared  his  grey,  rat’s  face.  She  whispered  it  to 
Des-Essars.  ‘  Baptist,  you  can  save  me.  Quick,  for  the 
love  of  Christ !  The  coffer  !  the  coffer  !  ’ 

He  knew  what  she  meant.  That  coffer  contained  her 
letters  to  Bothwell,  her  sonnets  —  therefore,  her  life.  He 
understood  her,  and  went  away  without  a  word.  He  took 
his  sword,  put  a  hood  over  his  head,  got  out  of  the  backside 
of  the  house,  over  a  wall,  into  the  wynd.  Hence,  being 
perfectly  unknown,  he  entered  the  crowd  in  the  High 
Street  and  worked  his  way  down  the  Canongate.  He 
intended  to  get  into  Holyroodhouse  by  the  wall  and  the 
kitchen  window,  as  he  had  done  many  a  time,  and  notably 
on  the  night  of  David’s  slaughter.1 

Des-Essars  had  gone  to  save  her  life ;  but  whether  he 
did  it  or  no,  he  did  not  come  back.  She  wore  herself  to 
thread,  padding  up  and  down  the  room,  wondering  and 
fretting  about  him.  This  new  anxiety  made  her  forget  the 
street ;  but  towards  evening,  when  her  nerves  were  frayed 
and  raw,  it  began  to  infuriate  her  —  as  an  incessant  cry 
always  will.  She  suddenly  began  panting,  and  stood  hold¬ 
ing  her  breasts,  staring,  moving  her  lips,  her  bosom  heaving 

1  The  casket,  which  was  not  at  Holyrood,  is  supposed  to  have  been  secured 
by  Bothwell  in  the  Castle,  where  it  was  to  be  found  in  due  time.  But  Des- 
Essars  did  not  know  that.  Nor  is  it  clear  to  me  how  Bothwell  had  found 
opportunity  to  get  it  there. 


ch.  xi  APPASSIONATA  5oi 

in  spite  of  her  hands.  ‘  God  !  Mother  of  God  !  Aid  me  : 
I  go  mad,’  she  cried,  strangling,  and  ‘Air!  I  suffocate!’ 

and  once  more  threw  open  the  windows  and  let  in  the 
hubbub. 

She  was  really  tormented  for  air  and  breath.  She  tore 
at  her  bodice,  split  it  open  and  showed  herself  naked  to  the 
middle. 

‘Yes — yes  —  you  shall  look  upon  me  as  I  was  made.  You 
shall  see  that  I  am  a  woman  —  loved  once  —  loved  much. 

See,  see,  my  flesh  !  ’  Horrible  scandal !  —  but  the  poor  soul 
was  mad. 

Soon  after  this  some  of  the  lords  came  to  her  —  Lindsay, 
Morton,  and  Atholl.  The  windows,  they  said,  must  be 
closed  at  once ;  they  feared  a  riot.  They  would  take  her 
back  to  Holyroodhouse  if  she  would  be  patient.  But  she 
must  be  rendered  decent :  Atholl  gave  her  his  cloak.  She 
had  quieted  immediately  they  came,  and  thanked  them 
meekly. 

They  took  her  away  at  once.  Mary  Seton  followed 
close,  but  was  gently  pushed  back  by  Lord  Morton.  ‘  No, 
no  :  she  must  come  alone.  You  shall  see  her  after  a  little. 
You  cannot  come  now.’  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  as  I 
believe,  Mary  Seton  shed  tears. 

A  very  strong  guard,  with  pikes  presented,  hedged  her 
in.  She.  reached  Holyrood  on  foot,  and  was  shut  into  her 
own  cabinet.  It  was  empty  and  dark  but  for  the  candle 
they  had  left  with  her.  She  snatched  it  up,  and  began  a 
mad,  fruitless  hunt  for  her  casket.  It  was  not  in  its  place  — 
it  was  nowhere.  She  hunted  until  she  dropped.  She 
began  to  tear  at  herself  and  to  shriek.  Doom !  Doom  ! 
She  must  be  burned.  They  had  taken  her  coffer.  She  was 
alone  —  condemned  and  alone. 

Then  Des-Essars  crawled  out  of  the  dark  on  his  hands 
and  one  knee,  dragging  a  broken  leg  after  him,  and  fell 
close  beside  her,  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her  petticoat. 


CHAPTER  XII 


ADDOLORATA 

She  sat  on  the  floor,  and  had  his  head  at  rest  on  her  lap. 
Her  hands  were  upon  him,  and  so  he  rested.  The  great 
tears  fell  fast  and  wetted  his  hair. 

Her  grief  was  silent  and  altogether  gentle.  Still  as  she 
sat  there,  looking  before  her  with  wide  unwinking  eyes  and 
lips  a  little  parted,  she  was  unconscious  of  what  she  was 
suffering  or  had  suffered  :  all  about  her  was  the  blankness 
of  dark,  and  without  her  knowledge  the  night  fell ;  the 
dusk  like  a  vast  cloak  gathered  round  about  her,  fold  over 
fold  ;  and  still  she  sat  and  looked  at  nothing  with  her  wide 
unwinking  eyes.  Slowly  they  filled  and  brimmed,  and 
slowly  the  great  tears,  as  they  ripened,  fell.  There  were 
no  other  forms  of  grief,  none  of  grief’s  high  acts  :  only  their 
bitter  symbol — lamentation  embodied  in  tears,  and  nakedly 
there. 

‘Nay,  move  not  your  hands  —  nay,  touch  my  brows: 
my  head  aches — I  am  blind.’  The  lad  supine  in  her  lap 
pleaded  in  whispers. 

Gentle-voiced  she  answered  him.  ‘There  is  no  work 
left  for  my  hands  to  do  but  to  tend  thee,  my  dear.’ 

He  lay  dumb  for  a  while ;  then  said  he :  ‘You  shall  not 
blame  me.  It  is  not  here  —  not  in  the  house.  I  know 
not  where  it  is.  They  are  seeking  it  now.  He  came  here 
with  two  archers.  He  snarled  like  a  fox  to  find  me.’ 

‘  Who  was  this,  Baptist  ?  Was  it  Lethington  ?  ’ 

‘  Lethington.  He  believed  it  was  here.  He  forced  that 
knowledge  from  his  wife - ’ 


502 


CH.  XII 


ADDOLORATA 


503 


She  said,  *  Fleming  too  ?  ’ 

< _ 1  fought.  They  tried  to  make  me  tell  them  where 

I  had  hid  it.  They  lifted  and  threw  me.  ^  I  am  hurt  — 
cannot  move.  Oh,  they  will  have  it  now. 

‘  Rest,  my  dear,  rest.  Think  no  more  of  it.  They  have 
all  but  me.’  Out  of  the  heart  of  this  poor  nameless  youth 
she  was  to  learn  good  love ;  but  to  learn  it  only  to  know 
its  impossibility.  Not  for  her  now,  not  for  her !  Not  so 
could  she  ever  have  loved ;  no  !  but  she  could  be  kind. 
She  stooped  her  head  over  him  and  breathed  softly 
through  the  dark  —  ‘  and  I,  Baptist,  am  yours  if  you 
will.’ 

He  sighed.  ‘  Oh,  that  it  were  possible  !  That  night 

when  you  looked  back — that  night - you  let  me  take 

remember  you  of  that  ?  ’ 

She  knew  his  thought  and  all  his  heart.  Her  own 
were  at  leagues  of  distance  :  but  she  could  not  now  refuse 
him  kindness.  She  stooped  her  head  lower  towards  his, 
and  whispered,  ‘  Baptist,  can  you  hear  me  ?  ’ 

‘  Yes,  yes.’ 

‘  My  last  gift —  all  I  have  left :  yours  by  right.  Do  you 
hear  me  ?  Listen  —  understand.  I  am  yours  now  —  I  am 
forsaken  by  all  but  you.’ 

He  moved  uneasily,  sighed  again.  ‘Too  late,  too  late: 
I  lie  dying  here.’ 

She  leaned  down  yet  nearer;  he  felt  her  warm  breath 
beat  upon  him  —  quick  and  short  and  eager.  If  I  die  this 
night,  and  if  thou  die,  I  will  love  thee  first.’ 

<  Ah  !  ’  said  he,  ‘  I  know  very  well  that  you  desire  to  love 

me  now.’ 

‘  How  knowest  thou,  my  love  ?  ’ 

‘  By  the  way  you  lean  to  me,  and  by  other  things/ 

She  said,  ‘  You  are  well  schooled  in  love.’ 

‘Not  so  well,’  he  answered;  ‘but  I  am  well  schooled  in 

you,  my  Queen.’  run 

‘  Prove  me,  then  —  desire  of  me  —  ask  —  take.  I  shall 

never  deny  thee  anything.’ 

Again  he  said,  ‘  Too  late,  too  late.  You  cannot  —  and  I 
lie  dying.  Yet,  since  the  dead  can  do  you  no  wrong,  let 
me  lie  here  at  rest,  that  I  may  die  loving  you.’ 


504 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


She  stooped  to  kiss  him.  She  anointed  him  with  her 
hot  tears.  ‘  Rest,  rest,  my  only  true  lover  !  ’ 

‘  Peace,’  said  he :  4  let  me  sleep.  I  am  tired  to  death.’ 

She  kissed  his  eyelids.  He  slept. 

Men  came  about  the  door  — -  more  than  one.  She  sprang 
from  her  mate  and  kneeled  to  face  that  way,  screening  him 
where  he  lay  short-breathing.  They  knocked,  then  opened. 
The  torchlight  beat  upon  her,  and  showed  her  dishevelled 
and  undone.  She  covered  her  bosom  with  her  crossed 
arms.  ‘  What  is  it  ?  Who  comes  ?  ’ 

‘Madam’  —  this  was  Lord  Lindsay  —  ‘it  is  I.  I  have 
horses  beyond  the  wall.  It  is  time  to  be  going.  You  and 
I  must  take  the  road.’ 

‘  Whither,  sir  ?  Whither  will  you  take  me  so  late  ?  ’ 

‘  To  Lochleven,  ma’am.’ 

‘  You  order  me  ?  By  whose  warrant  ?  ’ 

‘  By  the  Council’s.  In  the  name  of  the  Prince.’ 

‘  It  is  infamy  that  you  do.  I  cannot  go.  I  am  alone 
here.’ 

‘  Women,  clothing,  all,  shall  follow  with  good  speed, 
madam.  But  we  must  be  speedier.’ 

‘  If  I  refuse  you  —  if  I  command - ?  ’ 

‘  I  cannot  consider  with  your  Majesty  the  effect  of  that.’ 

‘Do  you  take  me,  Lindsay  —  you  alone?  No,  but  I  will 
die  here  sooner.’ 

Lord  Sempill  spoke.  ‘  I  offer  myself  to  your  Majesty, 
with  the  consent  of  the  Lords.’ 

She  rose  up  then.  ‘  I  thank  you,  Lord  Sempill :  I  will 
go  with  you.’ 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  which,  having  kissed,  he  held. 
He  would  have  taken  her  away  then  and  there,  but  that  she 
pulled  against  him.  ‘  I  leave  my  servant  dead  here.  He 
loved  me  well,  and  I  him.  Let  me  pray  a  while ;  then  I 
will  go.’ 

Des-Essars  turned  and  rose  to  his  arm’s  length  from  the 
ground.  He  could  not  move  his  legs.  ‘  I  am  a  prisoner 
also  —  take  me.’ 

“  You,  my  man  ?  ’  says  Lindsay  :  ‘  unlikely.’ 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  Sempill’s  by  leave,  stooped 


CH.  XII 


ADDOLORATA 


505 


over  the  fading  lad  and  kissed  his  eyes.  ‘  Adieu,  my  truest 
love  and  last  friend  —  adieu,  adieu  !  I  have  been  death  to 
all  who  have  had  to  do  with  me.’  She  kissed  him  once 
more. 

‘  Sweet  death,’  said  Des-Essars. 

‘Come,’  she  said  to  Lord  Sempill,  and  gave  him  her 
hand  again.  He  led  her  away. 

Des-Essars  fell  his  length  upon  the  floor.  She  would 
have  turned  back  to  him  ;  they  hurried  her  forward  between 
them. 

The  door  shut  upon  Queen  Mary. 


EPILOGUE 


WHEREIN  WE  HAVE  A  GREAT  MAN  GREATLY  MOVED 

It  is  said  that  when  the  Earl  of  Moray,  in  France,  received 
from  the  messengers  sent  out  to  him  the  news  that  he  was 
chosen  Regent  of  Scotland,  he  bowed  his  head  in  a  very 
stately  manner  and  said  little  more  than  ‘  Sirs,  I  shall  strive 
in  this  as  in  all  things  to  do  the  Lord’s  will/  He  added 
not  one  word  which  might  enhance  or  impair  so  proper  a 
declaration;  he  remained  invisible  to  his  friends  for  the 
three  or  four  days  he  needed  to  be  abroad  ;  and  when  he 
set  out  for  the  north,  travelled  in  secret  and  mostly  by 
night  —  and  still  chose  to  keep  apart.  As  secret  in  his  hour 
of  success  as  he  had  been  in  those  of  defeat,  admirable  as 
his  sobriety  may  be,  we  must  make  allowances  for  the 
mortification  of  a  learned  man,  Mr.  George  Buchanan,  who, 
having  laboured  to  be  of  the  heralding  party,  found  himself 
and  his  baggage  of  odes  of  no  more  account  than  any  other 
body.  Was  the  chilly  piety  of  such  a  reception  as  my  lord 
had  vouchsafed  them  all  the  acknowledgment  he  cared  to 
admit  of  ancient  alliances,  of  sufferings  shared,  of  hopes 
kept  alive  by  mutual  fostering  ?  Could  a  man  look  forward 
to  any  community  of  mind  in  the  future  between  a  prince 
who  would  not  recognise  his  old  friends  and  those  same  tried 
friends  frozen  by  such  a  blank  reply  to  their  embassage  ? 
Mr.  Buchanan  urged  these  questions  upon  his  fellow-legate, 
Sir  James  Melvillof  Halhill — atraveller  and  fine  philosopher, 
who,  with  less  latinity  than  the  learned  historian,  had,  I 
think,  more  phlegm.  When  Mr.  Buchanan,  fretfully  ex¬ 
claiming  upon  the  isolation  of  his  new  master,  went  on  to 


BK.  Ill 


EPILOGUE 


50; 


concern  himself  with  poor  Scotland’s  case,  and  to  muse 
aloud  upon  Kings  Log  and  Stork,  Sir  James  twiddled  his 
thumbs ;  when  the  humanist  paused  for  a  reply,  he  got  it. 
‘Geordie,  my  man,’  said  Sir  James,  ‘my  counsel  to  you  is 
to  bide  your  good  time,  and  when  that  time  comes  to  ca’ 
canny,  as  we  have  it  familiarly.  Remember  you,  that  when 
you  sang  your  bit  epithalamy  at  the  marriage-door  of  Log, 
our  late  King,  although  he  never  stinted  his  largess  (but 
rewarded  you,  in  my  opinion,  abundantly),  he  had  no  notion 
in  the  world  what  you  were  about,  and  (as  I  believe)  paid 
you  the  more  that  you  might  end  the  sooner.  Late  or  soon 
you  will  be  heard  by  our  new  gracious  lord,  and  late  or  soon 
recompensed.  He  too  will  desire  you  to  stop,  my  man  : 
not  because  he  does  not  understand  you,  but  because  he 
understands  you  too  well.  Mark  my  words  now.’  This 
was  a  curious  prophecy  of  Sir  James’s,  in  one  sense 
curiously  fulfilled.  In  the  very  middle  of  his  oration  the 
orator  was  desired  to  stop  by  the  subject  of  it. 

Not  until  the  Regent  was  in  Edinburgh  did  a  chance 
present  itself  to  Mr.  Buchanan  of  declaiming  any  of  his 
Latin.  This,  be  it  said,  was  no  fault  of  Mr.  Buchanan’s, 
who,  if  abhorrence  of  the  old  order  and  acceptance  of  the 
new,  expressed  with  passion  at  all  times  of  the  day,  can 
entitle  a  man  to  notice,  should  certainly  have  had  it  before. 
Some,  indeed,  think  that  he  got  it  by  insisting  upon  having 
it ;  others  that  he  proved  his  title  by  exhibiting  the  heads 
of  a  remarkable  work  which  afterwards  made  some  stir  in 
the  world :  he  was,  at  any  rate,  summoned  to  the  Castle, 
and  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord  Regent  of  Scotland,  of  the 
Lords  Morton,  Crawfurd,  Atholl,  Argyll,  and  Lindsay,  of 
the  Lairds  of  Grange  and  Lethington,  and  of  others  too 
numerous  to  mention,  was  allowed  to  deliver  himself  of  an 
oration,  long  meditated,  in  the  Ciceronian  manner. 

The  occasion  was  weighty,  the  theme  worthy,  the  orator 
equal.  Tantce  molis  erat  was  the  burden  of  his  discourse, 
wherein  the  late  miseries  of  God’s  people  were  shown 
clearly  to  be,  as  it  were,  the  travail-pangs  of  the  august 
mother  of  new-born  Scotland.  From  these,  by  a  series  of 
circuits  which  it  would  be  long  to  follow,  he  passed  to 
consider  the  Hero  of  the  hour;  and  you  may  be  sure  that 


5o8 


THE  QUEEN’S  QUAIR 


BK.  Ill 


the  extraordinary  dignity  and  reserve  which  this  personage 
had  recently  shown  were  not  forgotten.  They  were,  said 
the  orator,  reasonable ,  not  only  as  coming  from  a  man  who 
had  never  failed  of  humility  before  God,  but  as  crowning  a 
life-long  trial  of  such  qualities.  The  child  is  father  of  the 
man.  Who  that  had  ever  known  this  magnanimous  prince 
had  seen  him  otherwise  than  remote,  alone  in  contempla¬ 
tion,  unspotted  fro7n  the  world?  In  a  peroration  which 
was  so  finely  eloquent  that  enthusiasm  broke  in  upon  it 
and  prevented  it  from  ever  being  finished,  he  spoke  to  this 
effect :  — - 

‘  It  is  furthermore,’  he  said,  ‘  a  singular  merit  of  your 
lordship’s,  in  these  days  of  brawl  and  advertisement,  that 
you  have  always  approved,  and  still  do  approve  yourself 
one  who,  like  the  nightingale  (that  choice  bird),  avoids  the 
multitude,  but  enriches  it,  quasi  out  of  the  dark.  For  as 
the  little  songster  in  his  plain  suit  of  brown,  hardly  to  be 
seen  in  the  twiggy  brake,  pours  forth  his  notes  upon  the 
wayfarer ;  so  has  your  lordship,  hiding  from  the  painful 
dusty  mart,  ravished  the  traffickers  therein  to  better  things 
by  your  most  melodious,  half-hidden  deeds.  O  coy  bene¬ 
factor  of  Scotland  !  O  reluctantly  a  king  !  O  hermit  Her¬ 
cules  !  O  thou  doer-of-good-by-stealth  !  ’  Here  he  turned 
to  the  Lords  of  the  Privy  Council.  ‘  Conscript  Fathers, 
we  have  prevailed  upon  our  Cincinnatus  to  quit  his 
plough  lest  haply  the  State  had  perished ;  but  with  him 
have  come  to  succour  us  those  virtues  which  are  his 
peculiar  —  to  which,  no  less  than  to  those  which  he  hath 
in  community  with  all  saviours  of  Commonwealths,  our 
extreme  tribute  is  due.  Let  us  respect  Austerity  whenas 
we  find  it,  respect  True  Religion,  respect  Abnegation,  re¬ 
spect,  above  all,  the  tender  feelings  of  Blood  and  Family, 
lacerated  (alas !)  of  late  in  a  princely  bosom.  Great 
and  altogether  lovely  are  these  things  in  any  man :  in 
a  statesman  how  much  the  more  dear  in  that  they  are 
rare !  But  a  greater  thing  than  austerity  and  the  crown 
of  true  religion  is  this,  Conscript  Fathers,  that  a  man 
should  live  through  bloodshedding,  and  not  see  it ;  that 
he  should  converse  with  bloody  men,  and  keep  clean 
hands!  For  King  David  said,  “I  will  wash  my  hands 


BK.  Ill 


EPILOGUE 


509 


in  innocency,”  and  said  well,  having  some  need  of  the 
ablution.  Conscript  Fathers !  this  man  hath  the  rather 
said,  “  But  I  will  keep  my  hands  innocently  clean,  lest  at 
any  time  lustral  water  fail  me  and  I  perish.”  O  wise  and 
honourable  resolve - ’ 

Irrepressible  applause  broke  in  upon  this  peroration, 
and  just  here.  The  Regent  was  observed  to  be  deeply 
moved.  He  had  covered  his  face  with  his  hand  ;  he  could 
not  bear  (it  was  thought)  to  hear  himself  so  openly  praised. 
When  silence  was  restored,  in  obedience  to  his  lifted  hand, 
speaking  with  difficulty,  he  said,  ‘  I  thank  you,  Mr. 
Buchanan,  for  your  honourable  and  earnest  words  ;  none 
the  less  honourable  in  yourself  in  that  the  subject  of  your 
praise  is  unworthy  of  them.  Alas !  what  can  a  man  do, 
set  in  the  midst  of  so  many  and  great  dangers,  but  keep 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  hope  of  his  calling?  He  may 
suffer  grievous  wounds  in  the  heart  and  affections,  grievous 
bruises  to  the  conscience,  grievous  languors  of  the  will  and 
mind  :  but  his  hopes  are  fixed,  his  eyes  are  set  to  look 
forward ;  he  cannot  altogether  perish.  Yourself,  sir,  whose 
godly  office  it  is  to  direct  the  motions  of  princes  and 
governors  that  way  which  is  indeed  the  way,  the  truth, 
and  the  life,  can  but  add  to  the  obligations  which  this 
young  (as  new-born)  nation  must  feel  towards  you,  by 
continuing  me  steadfast  in  those  things  for  which  you 
praise  me.  I  am  touched  by  many  compunctious  thorns  — 
I  cannot  say  all  that  I  would.  I  have  suffered  long  and 
in  private  —  I  feel  myself  strangely  —  I  am  not  strong 
enough  as  yet.  So  do  you,  Mr.  Buchanan,  so  do  you  to 
me-ward,  that  I  may  run,  sir ;  and  that,  running — please  the 
Lord  and  Father  of  us  all — that,  running,  I  may  obtain.’ 

It  was  felt  on  all  hands  that  more  would  have  been  a 
superfluity.  Mr.  Buchanan  was  very  ready  to  have 
continued  ;  but  my  Lord  Regent  had  need  of  repose ;  and 
my  Lord  of  Morton  moved  the  rest  of  their  lordships  that 
they  go  to  supper :  which  was  agreed  to,  and  so  done. 


THE  END 


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